UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


ZTbe  TKHorfcs  of  J6.  p,  IRoe 

VOLUME    ELEVEN 

TAKEN     ALIVE 

AND  OTHER   STORIES 

WITH    AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

THE    HOME    ACRE 

ILLUSTRATED 


NEW   YORK 
P,    P.    COLLIER    &    SON 


COPYRIGHT,  1883,  1889, 
Bv  DODD,  MEAD,  &  COMPANY. 

COPYRIGHT,  1888, 
BY  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  CO. 


T 
•1.9  oo 


CONTENTS 


*'A  NATIVE  AUTHOR  CALLED  EOE" 9 

TAKEN  ALIVE: 

CHAP.  I.  SOMETHING  BEFORE  UNKNOWN  ....  35 

II.  A  VISITOR  AT  THE  MINE 41 

III.  THWARTED 46 

IV.  TAKEN  ALIVE 54 

V.  WHAT  BRANDT  SAW  CHRISTMAS  EVE  .     .  61 

FOUND  YET  LOST: 

CHAP.  I.  LOVE  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 63 

II.  LOVE  AT  HOME.     .^ 68 

III.  "DISABLED" 74 

IV.  MARTINE  SEEKS  AN  ANTIDOTE    ....  81 
V.  SECOND  BLOOM 87 

VI.  MORE  THAN  EEWARD      .    .    .    *    .    .    .  95 

VII.  YANKEE  BLANK 102 

VIII.  "How  CAN  I?"      .    .    .    . 110 

IX..  SHADOWS  OF  COMING  EVENTS      ....  118 

3L.  "You  CANNOT  UNDERSTAND"      ....  126 

XI.  MR.  KEMBLE'S  APPEAL 133 

XII.  "You  MUST  EEMEMBER" 139 

XIII.  "I'M  HELEN" 146 

XIV.  "FORWARD!  COMPANY  A" -.156 

QUEEN  OF  SPADES 165 

AN  UNEXPECTED  KESULT 191 

(3) 

386835 


4  CONTENTS 

A  CHRISTMAS-EVE  SUIT  . 217 

THREE  THANKSGIVING  KISSES - .    .  235 

SUSIE  ROLLIFFE'S  CHRISTMAS 255 

JEFF'S  TREASURE: 

CHAP.  I.  ITS  DISCOVERY .  283 

II.  ITS  INFLUENCE 291 

CAUGHT  ON  THE  EBB-TIDE 301 

CHRISTMAS  EVE  IN  WAR  TIMES 314 

A  BRAVE  LITTLE  QUAKERESS      ....     .  ...    .  334 


UA    NATIVE    AUTHOR    CALLED    ROE" 


TWO  or  three  years  ago  the  editor  of  "Lippincott's  Maga 
zine"   asked  me,  with  many  others,  to  take  part  in  the 
very  interesting  "experience  meeting"  begun  in  the  pages 
of   that    enterprising    periodical.     I    gave    my    consent    without 
much  thought  of  the  effort  involved,  but  as  time  passed,   felt 
slight   inclination   to   comply   with   the   request.     There   seemed 
little  to  say  of  interest  to  the  general  public,  and  I  was  distinctly 
conscious   of   a  certain   sense   of   awkwardness   in  writing   about 
myself  at  all.     The  question,  Why  should  I  ?  always  confronted 
me. 

When  this  request  was  again  repeated  early  in  the  current 
year,  I  resolved  at  least  to  keep  my  promise.  This  is  done  with 
less  reluctance  now,  for  the  reason  that  floating  through  the 
press  I  meet  with  paragraphs  concerning  myself  that  are  in 
correct,  and  often  absurdly  untrue.  These  literary  and  personal 
notes,  together  with  many  questioning  letters,  indicate  a  certain 
amount  of  public  interest,  and  I  have  concluded  that  it  may  be 
well  to  give  the  facts  to  those  who  care  to  know  them. 

It  has  been  made  more  clear  to  me  that  there  are  many  who 
honestly  do  care.  One  of  the  most  prized  rewards  of  my  lit 
erary  work  is  the  ever-present  consciousness  that  my  writings 
have  drawn  around  me  a  circle  of  unknown  yet  stanch  friends, 
who  have  stood  by  me  unfalteringly  for  a  number  of  years.  I 
should  indeed  be  lacking  if  my  heart  did  not  go  out  to  them  in 
responsive  friendliness  and  goodwill.  If  I  looked  upon  them 
merely  as  an  aggregation  of  customers,  they  would  find  me  out 
speedily.  A  popular  mood  is  a  very  different  thing  from  an 
abiding  popular  interest.  If  one  could  address  this  circle  of 
friends  only,  the  embarrassment  attendant  on  a  certain  amount 


10  "A   NATIVE   AUTHOR    CALLED   ROE" 

of  egotism  would  be  banished  by  the  assurance  of  sympathetic 
regard.  Since,  from  the  nature  of  circumstances,  this  is  im 
possible,  it  seems  to  me  in  better  taste  to  consider  the  "author 
called  Roe"  in  an  objective,  rather  than  in  a  friendly  and  sub 
jective  sense.  In  other  words,  I  shall  try  to  look  at  him  from 
the  public  point  of  view,  and  free  myself  from  some  predisposi 
tion  in  his  favor  shared  by  his  friends.  I  suppose  I  shall  not 
succeed  in  giving  a  colorless  statement  of  fact,  but  I  may  avoid 
much  special  pleading  in  his  behalf. 

Like  so  many  other  people,  I  came  from  a  very  old  family, 
one  from  which  there  is  good  proof  of  an  unbroken  line  through 
the  Dark  Ages,  and  all  ages,  to  the  first  man.  I  have  never 
given  any  time  to  tracing  ancestry,  but  have  a  sort  of  quiet 
satisfaction  that  mine  is  certainly  American  as  far  as  it  well 
can  be.  My  forefathers  (not  "rude,"  to  my  knowledge)  were 
among  the  first  settlers  on  the  Atlantic  seaboard.  My  paternal 
and  maternal  grandfathers  were  stanch  Whigs  during  the  Revo 
lution,  and  had  the  courage  of  their  convictions.  My  grand 
mother  escaped  with  her  children  from  the  village  of  Kingston 
almost  as  the  British  entered  it,  and  her  home  was  soon  in 
ashes.  Her  husband,  James  Roe,  was  away  in  the  army.  My 
mother  died  some  years  before  I  attained  my  majority,  and  I 
cannot  remember  when  she  was  not  an  invalid.  Such  literary 
tendencies  as  I  have  are  derived  from  her,  but  I  do  not  possess  a 
tithe  of  her  intellectual  power.  Her  story-books  in  her  youth 
were  the  classics;  and  when  she  was  but  twelve  years  of  age  she 
knew  "Paradise  Lost"  by  heart.  In  my  recollections  of  her, 
the  Bible  and  all  works  tending  to  elucidate  its  prophecies  were 
her  favorite  themes  of  study.  The  retentiveness  of  her  memory 
was  very  remarkable.  If  any  one  repeated  a  verse  of  the  New 
Testament,  she  could  go  on  and  finish  the  chapter.  Indeed,  she 
could  quote  the  greater  part  of  the  Bible  with  the  ease  and  ac 
curacy  of  one  reading  from  the  printed  page.  The  works  of 
Hugh  Miller  and  the  Arctic  Explorations  of  Dr.  Kane  afforded 
her  much  pleasure.  Confined  usually  to  her  room,  she  took 
unfailing  delight  in  wandering  about  the  world  with  the  great 
travellers  of  that  day,  her  strong  fancy  reproducing  the  scenes 
they  described.  A  stirring  bit  of  history  moved  her  deeply. 
Well  do  I  remember,  when  a  boy,  of  reading  to  her  a  chapter 
from  Motley's  "Dutch  Republic,"  and  of  witnessing  in  her 


"A    NATIVE   AUTHOR    CALLED   ROE"  11 

flushed  cheeks  and  sparkling  black  eyes  proof  of  an  excitement 
all  too  great  for  one  in  her  frail  health.  She  had  the  unusual 
gift  of  relating  in  an  easy,  simple  way  what  she  read;  and  many 
a  book  far  too  abstruse  and  dull  for  my  boyish  taste  became  an 
absorbing  story  from  her  lips.  One  of  her  chief  characteristics 
was  the  love  of  flowers.  I  can  scarcely  recall  her  when  a  flower 
of  some  kind,  usually  a  rose,  was  not  within  her  reach;  and  only 
periods  of  great  feebleness  kept  her  from  their  daily  care,  win 
ter  and  summer.  Many  descendants  of  her  floral  pets  are  now 
blooming  in  my  garden. 

My  father,  on  the  other  hand,  was  a  sturdy  man  of  action. 
His  love  for  the  country  was  so  strong  that  he  retired  from  busi 
ness  in  New  York  as  soon  as  he  had  won  a  modest  competence. 
For  forty-odd  years  he  never  wearied  in  the  cultivation  of  his 
little  valley  farm,  and  the  square,  flower-bordered  garden,  at  one 
side  of  which  ran  an  unfailing  brook.  In  this  garden  and  un 
der  his  tuition  I  acquired  my  love  of  horticulture — acquired  it 
with  many  a  backache — heartache  too,  on  days  good  for  fishing 
or  hunting;  but,  taking  the  bitter  with  the  sweet,  the  sweet  pre 
dominated.  I  find  now  that  I  think  only  of  the  old-fashioned 
roses  in  the  borders,  and  not  of  my  hands  bleeding  from  the 
thorns.  If  I  groaned  over  the  culture  of  many  vegetables,  it 
was  much  compensation  to  a  boy  that  the  dinner-table  groaned 
also  under  the  succulent  dishes  thus  provided.  I  observed  that 
my  father's  interest  in  his  garden  and  farm  never  flagged,  thus 
proving  that  in  them  is  to  be  found  a  pleasure  which  does  not 
pall  with  age.  During  the  last  summer  of  his  life,  when  in  his 
eighty-seventh  year,  he  had  the  delight  of  a  child  in  driving  over 
to  my  home  in  the  early  morning,  long  before  I  was  up,  and  in 
leaving  a  basket  of  sweet  corn  or  some  other  vegetable  which  he 
knew  would  prove  his  garden  to  be  ahead  of  mine. 

My  father  was  very  simple  and  positive  in  his  beliefs,  always 
openly  foremost  in  the  reform  movements  of  his  day  and  in  his 
neighborhood,  yet  never,  to  my  knowledge,  seeking  or  taking 
any  office.  His  house  often  became  a  station  of  the  "under 
ground  railroad"  in  slavery  times,  and  an  one  night  in  the  depth 
of  winter  he  took  a  hotly-pursued  fugitive  in  his  sleigh  and  drove 
him  five  miles  on  the  ice,  diagonally  across  the  Hudson,  to  Fish- 
kill,  thence  putting  the  brave  aspirant  for  freedom  on  the  way  to 
other  friends.  He  incurred  several  risks  in  this  act.  It  is 


12  "A   NATIVE   AUTHOR    CALLED   ROE" 

rarely  safe  to  drive  on  the  river  off  the  beaten  tracks  at  night, 
for  there  are  usually  air-holes,  and  the  strong  tides  are  continu 
ally  making  changes  in  the  ice.  When  told  that  he  might  be  sent 
to  jail  for  his  defiance  of  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law,  he  quietly  an 
swered,  "I  can  go  to  jail."  The  thing  he  could  not  do  was  lo 
deny  the  man's  appeal  to  him  for  help.  Before  the  war  he  was 
known  as  an  Abolitionist — after  it,  as  a  Conservative,  his  sym 
pathy  with  and  for  the  South  being  very  strong.  During  the 
draft  riots  in  1863  the  spirit  of  lawlessness  was  on  the  point  of 
breaking  out  in  the  river  towns.  I  happened  to  be  home  from 
Virginia,  and  learned  that  my  father's  house  was  among  those 
marked  for  burning  on  a  certain  night.  During  this  night  the 
horde  gathered;  but  one  of  their  leaders  had  received  such  em- 
pathetic  warning  of  what  would  happen  the  following  day  should 
outrages  be  perpetrated,  that  he  persuaded  his  associates  to  de 
sist.  I  sat  up  that  night  at  my  father's  door  with  a  double-bar 
relled  gun,  more  impressed  with  a  sense  of  danger  than  at  any 
other  time  in  my  experience;  he,  on  the  contrary,  slept  as  quietly 
as  a  child. 

He  often  practiced  close  economy  in  order  to  give  his  sons 
a  good  education.  The  one  act  of  my  life  which  I  remember 
with  unalloyed  pride  and  pleasure  occured  while  I  was  at  board 
ing-school  in  Vermont,  preparing  for  college.  I  learned  through 
my  mother  that  my  father  had  denied  himself  his  daily  news 
paper;  and  I  knew  well  how  much  he  would  miss  it.  We  burned 
wood  in  the  large  stone  seminary  building.  Every  autumn  great 
ranks  of  hard  maple  were  piled  up,  and  students  who  wished  to 
earn  a  little  money  were  paid  a  dollar  a  cord  for  sawing  it  into 
three  lengths.  I  applied  for  nine  cords,  and  went  at  the  unac 
customed  task  after  study  hours.  My  back  aches  yet  as  I  recall 
the  experiences  of  subsequent  weeks,  for  the  wood  was  heavy, 
thick,  and  hard  as  bone.  I  eventually  had  the  pleasure  of  send 
ing  to  my  father  the  subscription  price  of  his  paper  for  a  year. 
If  a  boy  reads  these  lines,  let  me  assure  him  that  he  will  never 
know  a  sweeter  moment  in  his  life  than  when  he  receives  the 
thanks  of  his  parents  for  some  such  effort  in  their  behalf.  No 
investment  can  ever  pay  him  better. 

In  one  of  my  books,  "Nature's  Serial  Story,"  my  father  and 
mother  appear,  slightly  idealized. 

Toward  the  close  of  my  first  year  in  Williams  College  a  mis- 


"A    NATIVE   AUTHOR    CALLED    ROE"  13 

fortune  occurred  which  threatened  to  be  very  serious.  Study 
ing  by  defective  light  injured  my  eyes.  They  quickly  became 
so  sensitive  that  I  could  scarcely  endure  lamplight  or  the  heat  of 
a  stove,  only  the  cold  out-door  air  relieving  the  pain;  so  I  spent 
much  time  in  wandering  about  in  the  boisterous  weather  of  early 
spring  in  Williamstown.  At  last  I  became  so  discouraged  that  I 
went  to  President  Hopkins  and  told  him  that  I  feared  I  must 
give  up  the  purpose  of  acquiring  an  education.  Never  can  I 
forget  how  that  grand  old  man  met  the  disheartened  boy. 
Speaking  in  the  wise,  friendly  way  which  subdued  the  heart  and 
strengthened  the  will,  he  made  the  half-hour  spent  with  him  the 
turning-point  of  my  life.  In  conclusion,  he  advised  me  to  enter 
the  Senior  class  the  following  fall,  thus  taking  a  partial  course 
of  study.  How  many  men  are  living  to-day  who  owe  much  of 
the  best  in  their  lives  to  that  divinely  inspired  guide  and  teacher 
of  youth ! 

I  next  went  to  another  man  great  in  his  sphere  of  life — Dr. 
Agnew,  the  oculist.  He  gave  my  eyes  a  thorough  examination, 
told  me  that  he  could  do  nothing  for  them;  that  rest  and  the 
vigor  acquired  from  out-door  life  would  restore  them.  He  was 
as  kind  and  sympathetic  in  his  way  as  the  college  president,  and 
charged  but  a  trifle,  to  relieve  me  from  the  sense  of  taking  char 
ity.  Dr.  Agnew's  words  proved  correct;  and  the  following 
autumn  I  entered  the  class  of  '6l,  and  spent  a  happy  year.  Some 
of  my  classmates  were  very  kind  in  reading  aloud  to  me,  while 
Dr.  Hopkins's  instruction  was  invaluable.  By  the  time  I  en 
tered  Auburn  Theological  Seminary,  my  eyes  were  quite  re 
stored,  and  I  was  able  to  go  through  the  first  year's  course  of 
study  without  difficulty.  In  the  summer  of  1862  I  could  no 
longer  resist  the  call  for  men  in  the  army.  Learning  that  the 
Second  New  York  (Harris's  Light)  Cavalry  was  without  a  chap 
lain,  I  obtained  the  appointment  to  that  position.  General  Kil- 
patrick  was  then  lieutenant-colonel,  and  in  command  of  the  regi 
ment.  In  December,  1862,  I  witnessed  the  bloody  and  disas 
trous  battle  of  Fredericksburg,  and  can  never  forget  the  ex 
periences  of  that  useless  tragedy.  I  was  conscious  of  a  sensa 
tion  which  struck  me  as  too  profound  to  be  merely  awe.  Early 
in  the  morning  we  crossed  the  Rappahannock  on  a  pontoon 
bridge  and  marched  up  the  hill  to  an  open,  plain.  The  roar  of 
the  battle  was  simply  terrific,  shading  off  from  the  sharp  con- 


14  "A    NATIVE   AUTHOR    CALLED    ROE" 

tinuous  thunder  immediately  about  us  to  dull,  heavy  mutterings 
far  to  the  right  and  left.  A  few  hundred  yards  before  us,  where 
the  ground  began  to  slope  up  to  the  fatal  heights  crowned  with 
Confederate  works  and  ordnance,  were  long  lines  of  Union  bat 
teries.  From  their  iron  mouths  puffs  of  smoke  issued  inces 
santly,  followed  by  tremendous  reverberations.  Back  of  these 
batteries  the  ground  was  covered  with  men  lying  on  their  arms, 
that  they  might  present  a  less  obvious  target.  Then  a  little  fur 
ther  to  the  rear,  on  the  level  ground  above  the  bluff,  stood  our 
cavalry.  Heavy  guns  on  both  sides  of  the  river  were  sending 
their  great  shrieking  shells  back  and  forth  over  our  heads,  and 
we  often  "ducked"  instinctively  when  the  missile  was  at  least 
forty  feet  above  us.  Even  our  horses  shuddered  at  the  sound. 

I  resolved  to  learn  if  the  men  were  sharing  in  my  emotions — 
in  brief,  what  effect  the  situation  had  upon  them — and  rode 
slowly  down  our  regimental  line.  So  vivid  was  the  impression 
of  that  long  array  of  awed,  pallid  faces  that  at  this  moment  I 
can  recall  them  distinctly.  There  were  strange  little  touches  of 
mingled  pathos  and  humor.  Meadow-larks  were  hemmed  in  on 
every  side,  too  frightened  to  fly  far  beyond  the  rude  alarms. 
They  would  flutter  up  into  the  sulphurous  air  with  plaintive  cries, 
then  drop  again  into  the  open  spaces  between  the  troops.  At 
one  time,  while  we  were  standing  at  our  horses'  heads,  a  startled 
rabbit  ran  to  us  for  cover.  The  poor  little  creature  meant  a 
'dinner  to  the  fortunate  captor  on  a  day  when  a  dinner  was 
extremely  problematical.  We  engaged  in  a  sharp  scramble,  the 
prize  being  won  by  the  regimental  surgeon,  who  kindly  shared 
his  game  with  me. 

General  Bayard,  commanding  our  brigade,  was  mortally 
wounded,  and  died  like  a  hero.  He  was  carried  to  a  fine  man 
sion  near  which  he  had  received  his  injury.  Many  other  des 
perately  wounded  men  were  brought  to  the  spacious  rooms  of 
this  abode  of  Southern  luxury,  and  the  surgeons  were  kept  busy 
all  throught  the  day  and  night.  It  was  here  I  gained  my  first 
experience  in  hospital  work.  This  extemporized  hospital  on  the 
field  was  so  exposed  as  to  be  speedily  abandoned.  In  the  morn 
ing  I  recrossed  the  Rappahannock  with  my  regiment,  which  had 
been  ordered  down  the  river  on  picket  duty.  Soon  after  we 
went  into  winter  quarters  in  a  muddy  cornfield.  In  February  I 
resigned,  with  the  purpose  of  completing  my  studies,  and  spent 


"A    NATIVE   AUTHOR    CALLED    ROE"  15 

the  remainder  of  the  term  at  the  Union  Theological  Seminary  of 
New  York.  My  regiment  would  not  get  another  chaplain,  so  I 
again  returned  to  it.  In  November  I  received  a  month's  leave 
of  absence,  and  was  married  to  Miss  Anna  P.  Sands,  of  New 
York  City.  Our  winter  quarters  in  1864  were  at  Stevensburg, 
between  the  town  of  Culpeper  and  the  Rapidan  River.  During 
the  pleasant  days  of  late  February  several  of  the  officers  were 
enjoying  the  society  of  their  wives.  Mrs.  Roe  having  expressed 
a  willingness  to  rough  it  with  me  for  a  week,  I  sent  for  her,  and 
one  Saturday  afternoon  went  to  the  nearest  railroad  station  to 
meet  her.  The  train  came,  but  not  my  wife;  and,  much  dis 
appointed,  I  found  the  return  ride  of  five  miles  a  dreary  one  in 
the  winter  twilight.  I  stopped  at  our  colonel's  tent  to  say  to 
him  and  his  wife  that  Mrs.  Roe  had  not  come,  then  learned  for 
the  first  time  very  startling  tidings. 

"Chaplain,"  said  the  colonel,  "we  are  going  to  Richmond  to 
morrow.  We  are  going  to  wade  right  through  and  past  every 
thing  in  a  neck-or-nothing  ride,  and  who  will  come  out  is  a 
question." 

His  wife  was  weeping  in  her  private  tent,  and  I  saw  that  for 
the  first  time  in  my  acquaintance  with  him  he  was  downcast. 
He  was  one  of  the  bravest  of  men,  yet  now  a  foreboding  of  evil 
oppressed  him.  The  result  justified  it,  for  he  was  captured  during 
the  raid,  and  never  fully  rallied  after  the  war  from  the  physical 
depression  caused  by  his  captivity.  He  told  me  that  on  the 
morrow  General  Kilpatrick  would  lead  four  thousand  picked 
cavalry  men  in  a  raid  on  Richmond,  having  as  its  special  obj  ect 
the  release  of  our  prisoners.  I  rode  to  the  headquarters  of  the 
general,  who  confirmed  the  tidings,  adding,  "You  need  not  go. 
Non-combatants  are  not  expected  to  go." 

It  was  most  fortunate  that  my  wife  had  not  come.  I  had  re 
cently  been  appointed  chaplain  of  Hampton  Hospital,  Virginia, 
by  President  Lincoln,  and  was  daily  expecting  my  confirmation 
by  the  Senate.  I  had  fully  expected  to  give  my  wife  a  glimpse 
of  army  life  in  the  field,  and  then  to  enter  on  my  new  duties.  To 
go  or  not  to  go  was  a  question  with  me  that  night.  The  raid  cer 
tainly  offered  a  sharp  contrast  with  the  anticipated  week's  out 
ing  with  my  bride.  I  did  not  possess  by  nature  that  kind  of 
courage  which  is  indifferent  to  danger;  and  life  had  never  of 
fered  more  attractions  than  at  that  time.  I  have  since  enjoyed 


16  "A    NATIVE   AUTHOR    CALLED    ROE" 

Southern  hospitality  abundantly,  and  hope  to  again,  but  then  its 
prospect  was  not  alluring.  Before  morning,  however,  I  reached 
the  decision  that  I  would  go,  and  during  the  Sunday  forenoon 
held  my  last  service  in  the  regiment.  I  had  disposed  of  my 
horse,  and  so  had  to  take  a  sorry  beast  at  the  last  moment,  the 
only  one  I  could  obtain. 

In  the  dusk  of  Sunday  evening  four  thousand  men  were 
masked  in  the  woods  on  the  banks  of  the  Rapidan.  Our  scouts 
opened  the  way  by  wading  the  stream  and  pouncing  upon  the 
unsuspecting  picket  of  twenty  Confederates  opposite.  Then 
away  we  went  across  a  cold,  rapid  river,  marching  all  that  night 
through  the  dim  woods  and  openings  in  a  country  that  was  em 
phatically  the  enemy's.  Lee's  entire  army  was  on  our  right, 
the  main  Confederate  cavalry  force  on  our  left.  The  strength 
of  our  column  and  its  objective  point  could  not  remain  long  un 
known. 

In  some  unimportant  ways  I  acted  as  aid  for  Kilpatrick.  A 
few  hundred  yards  in  advance  of  the  main  body  rode  a  van 
guard  of  two  hundred  men,  thrown  forward  to  warn  us  should 
we  strike  any  considerable  number  of  the  enemy's  cavalry.  As 
is  ever  the  case,  the  horses  of  a  small  force  will  walk  away  from 
a  much  larger  body,  and  it  was  necessary  from  time  to  time  to 
send  word  to  the  vanguard,  ordering  it  to  "slow  up."  This  or 
der  was  occasionally  intrusted  to  me.  I  was  to  gallop  over  the 
interval  between  the  two  columns,  then  draw  up  by  the  roadside 
and  sit  motionless  on  my  horse  till  the  general  with  his  staff 
came  up.  The  slightest  irregularity  of  action  would  bring  a  shot 
from  our  own  men,  while  the  prospect  of  an  interview  with  the 
Johnnies  while  thus  isolated  was  always  good.  I  saw  one  of 
our  officers  shot  that  night.  He  had  ridden  carelessly  into  the 
woods,  and  rode  out  again  just  before  the  head  of  the  column, 
without  instantly  accounting  for  himself.  As  it  was  of  vital  im 
portance  to  keep  the  movement  secret  as  long  as  possible,  the 
poor  fellow  was  silenced  in  sad  error  as  to  his  identity. 

On  we  rode,  night  and  day,  with  the  briefest  possible  halts. 
At  one  point  we  nearly  captured  a  railroad  train,  and  might 
easily  have  succeeded  had  not  the  station  and  warehouses  been 
in  flames.  As  it  was,  the  train  approached  us  closely,  then 
backed,  the  shrieking  engine  itself  giving  the  impression  of  be 
ing  startled  to  the  last  degree. 


"A    NATIVE   AUTHOR    CALLED   ROE1'  17 

On  a  dreary,  drizzling,  foggy  day  we  passed  a  milestone  on 
which  was  lettered,  "Four  miles  to  Richmond."  It  was  still  "on 
to  Richmond"  with  us  what  seemed  a  long  way  further,  and  then 
came  a  considerable  period  of  hesitancy,  in  which  the  command 
was  drawn  up  for  the  final  dash.  The  enemy  shelled  a  field  near 
us  vigorously,  but  fortunately,  or  unfortunately,  the  fog  was  so 
dense  that  neither  party  could  make  accurate  observations  or  do 
much  execution. 

For  reasons  that  have  passed  into  history,  the  attack  was 
not  made.  We  withdrew  six  miles  from  the  city  and  went  into 
camp. 

I  had  scarcely  begun  to  enjoy  much-needed  rest  before  the 
Confederates  came  up  in  the  darkness  and  shelled  us  out  of 
such  quarters  as  we  had  found.  We  had  to  leave  our  boiling 
coffee  behind  us — one  of  the  greatest  hardships  I  have  ever 
known.  Then  followed  a  long  night-ride  down  the  Peninsula, 
in  driving  sleet  and  rain. 

The  next  morning  the  sun  brjke  out  gloriously,  warming  and 
drying  our  chilled,  wet  forms.  Nearly  all  that  day  we  main 
tained  a  line  of  battle  confronting  the  pursuing  enemy.  One 
brigade  would  take  a  defensive  position,  while  the  other  would 
march  about  five  miles  to  a  commanding  point,  where  it  in  turn 
would  form  a  line.  The  first  brigade  would  then  give  way,  pass 
through  the  second,  and  take  position  well  to  the  rear.  Thus, 
although  retreating,  we  were  always  ready  to  fight.  At  one 
point  the  enemy  pressed  us  closely,  and  I  saw  a  magnificent  cav 
alry  charge  down  a  gentle  descent  in  the  road.  Every  sabre 
seemed  tipped  with  fire  in  the  brilliant  sunshine. 

In  the  afternoon  it  became  evident  that  there  was  a  body 
of  troops  before  us.  Who  or  what  they  were  was  at  first  un 
known,  and  for  a  time  the  impression  prevailed  that  we  should 
have  to  cut  our  way  through  by  a  headlong  charge.  We  soon 
learned,  however,  that  the  force  was  a  brigade  of  colored  in 
fantry,  sent  up  to  cover  our  retreat.  It  was  the  first  time  we 
had  seen  negro  troops,  but  as  the  long  line  of  glistening  bay 
onets  and  light-blue  uniforms  came  into  view,  prejudices,  if  any 
there  were,  vanished  at  once,  and  a  cheer  from  the  begrimed 
troopers  rang  down  our  line,  waking  the  echoes.  It  was  a  pleas 
ant  thing  to  march  past  that  array  of  faces,  friendly  though 
black,  and  know  we  were  safe.  They  represented  the  F.F.V.'s 


18  "4    NATIVE   AUTHOR    CALLED   ROE" 

of  Old  Virginia,  we  then  wished  to  see.  On  the  last  day  of  the 
march  my  horse  gave  out,  compelling  me  to  walk  and  lead  him. 

On  the  day  after  our  arrival  at  Yorktown,  Kilpatrick  gave  me 
despatches  for  the  authorities  at  Washington.  President  Lin 
coln,  learning  that  I  had  just  returned  from  the  raid,  sent  for 
me,  and  I  had  a  memorable  interview  with  him  alone  in  his 
private  room.  He  expressed  profound  solicitude  for  Colonel 
Dahlgren  and  his  party.  They  had  been  detached  from  the 
main  force,  and  I  could  give  no  information  concerning  them. 
We  eventually  learned  of  the  death  of  that  heroic  young  officer, 
Colonel  Dahlgren.  Although  partially  helpless  from  the  loss  of 
a  leg,  he  led  a  daring  expedition  at  the  cost  of  his  life. 

I  expressed  regret  to  the  President  that  the  object  of  the  raid 
had  not  been  accomplished.  "Pick  the  flint,  and  try  it  again," 
said  Mr.  Lincoln,  heartily.  I  went  out  from  his  presence  awed 
by  the  courage  and  sublime  simplicity  of  the  man.  While  he 
gave  the  impression  that  he  was  bearing  the  nation  on  his  heart, 
one  was  made  to  feel  that  it  wa*,also  large  enough  for  sympathy 
with  all  striving  with  him  in  the  humblest  way. 

My  wife  joined  me  in  Washington,  and  few  days  later  ac 
companied  me  to  the  scene  of  my  new  labors  at  Hampton  Hos 
pital,  near  Fortress  Monroe.  There  were  not  many  patients  at 
that  time  (March,  1864)  in  the  large  barrack  wards;  but  as  soon 
as  the  Army  of  the  Potomac  broke  through  the  Wilderness  and 
approached  our  vicinity,  transports  in  increasing  numbers,  laden 
with  desperately  wounded  men,  came  to  our  wharf.  During 
the  early  summer  the  wooden  barracks  were  speedily  filled,  and 
many  tent  wards  were  added.  Duty  became  constant  and  se 
vere,  while  the  scenes  witnessed  were  often  painful  in  the  last 
degree.  More  truly  than  on  the  field,  the  real  horrors  of  war 
are  learned  from  the  long  agonies  in  the  hospital.  While  in  the 
cavalry  service,  I  gained  in  vigor  daily;  in  two  months  of  hos 
pital  work  I  lost  thirty  pounds.  On  one  day  I  buried  as  many 
as  twenty-nine  men.  Every  evening,  till  the  duty  became  like 
a  nightmare,  I  followed  the  dead-cart,  filled  up  with  coffins,  once, 
twice,  and  often  thrice,  to  the  cemetery.  Eventually  an  associ 
ate  chaplain  was  appointed,  who  relieved  me  of  this  task. 

Fortunately,  my  tastes  led  me  to  employ  an  antidote  to  rny 
daily  work  as  useful  to  me  as  to  the  patients.  Surrounding  the 
hospital  was  much  waste  land.  This,  with  the  approval  of  the 


"A    NATIVE   AUTHOR    GALLED   ROE"  19 

surgeon  in  charge,  Dr.  Ely  McMillan,  and  the  aid  of  the  con 
valescents,  I  transformed  into  a  garden,  and  for  two  successive 
seasons  sent  to  the  general  kitchen  fresh  vegetables  by  the 
wagon-load.  If  reward  were  needed,  the  wistful  delight  with 
which  a  patient  from  the  front  would  regard  a  raw  onion  was 
ample;  while  for  me  the  care  of  the  homely,  growing  vegetables 
and  fruit  brought  a  diversion  of  mind  which  made  life  more  en 
durable. 

One  of  the  great  needs  of  the  patients  who  had  to  fight  the 
winning  or  losing  battle  of  life  was  good  reading,  and  I  speedily 
sought  to  obtain  a  supply.  Hearts  and  purses  at  the  North  re 
sponded  promptly  and  liberally;  publishers  threw  oiF  fifty  per 
cent  from  their  prices ;  and  I  was  eventually  able  to  collect,  by 
gift  and  purchase,  about  three  thousand  volumes.  In  gathering 
this  library,  I  provided  what  may  be  distinctly  termed  religious 
reading  in  abundance;  but  I  also  recognized  the  need  of  diver 
sion.  Long  wards  were  filled  with  men  who  had  lost  a  leg  or  an 
arm,  and  who  must  lie  in  one  position  for  weeks.  To  help  them 
get  through  the  time  was  to  help  them  to  live.  I  therefore  made 
the  library  rich  in  popular  fiction  and  genial  books  of  travel  and 
biography.  Full  sets  of  Irving,  Cooper,  Dickens,  Thackeray, 
Scott,  Marryat,  and  other  standard  works  were  bought;  and 
many  a  time  I  have  seen  a  poor  fellow  absorbed  in  their  pages 
while  holding  his  stump  lest  the  jar  of  a  footstep  should  send  a 
dart  of  agony  to  the  point  of  mutilation.  My  wife  gave  much 
assistance  in  my  hospital  duties,  often  reaching  and  influencing 
those  beyond  me.  I  recall  one  poor  fellow  who  was  actually  six 
months  in  dying  from  a  very  painful  wound.  Profanity  ap 
peared  to  be  his  vernacular,  and  in  bitter  protest  at  his  fate,  he 
would  curse  nearly  every  one  and  everything.  Mrs.  Roe's  sym 
pathy  and  attentions  changed  him  very  much,  and  he  would  lis 
ten  quietly  as  long  as  she  would  read  to  him.  Some  of  the  hos 
pital  attendants,  men  and  women,  had  good  voices,  and  we  or 
ganized  a  choir.  Every  Sunday  afternoon  we  went  from  ward 
to  ward  singing  familiar  hymns.  It  was  touching  to  see  rough 
fellows  drawing  their  blankets  over  their  heads  to  hide  the  emo 
tion  caused  by  words  and  melodies  associated,  in  many  instances, 
with  home  and  mother. 

Northern  generosity,  and,  in  the  main,  convalescent  labor  en 
abled  me  to  build  a  large  commodious  chapel  and  to  make  great 


20  "A    NATIVE   AUTHOR    CALLED   ROE" 

improvements  in  the  hospital  farm.  The  site  of  the  hospital  and 
garden  is  now  occupied  by  General  Armstrong's  Normal  and 
Agricultural  Institute  for  Freedmen,  and  the  chapel  was  oc 
cupied  as  a  place  of  worship  until  very  recently.  Thus  a  noble 
and  most  useful  work  is  being  accomplished  on  the  ground  con 
secrated  by  the  life-and-death  struggles  of  so  many  Union 
soldiers. 

In  1865  the  blessed  era  of  peace  began,  bringing  its  many 
changes.  In  October  the  hospital  became  practically  empty, 
and  I  resigned.  The  books  were  sent  to  Fortress  Monroe  for 
the  use  of  the  garrison,  and  I  found  many  of  them  there  long 
years  after,  almost  worn  out  from  use. 

After  a  little  rest  and  some  candidating  for  a  church,  I  took  a 
small  parish  at  Highland  Falls,  about  a  mile  from  West  Point, 
New  York,  entering  on  my  labors  in  January,  1866.  In  this 
village  my  wife  and  I  spent  nine  very  happy  years.  They  were 
full  of  trial  and  many  cares,  but  free  from  those  events  which 
bring  the  deep  shadows  into  one's  life.  We  soon  became  en 
gaged  in  building  a  new  stone  church,  whose  granite  walls  are 
so  thick,  and  hard-wood  finish  so  substantial  that  passing  cen 
turies  should  add  only  the  mellowness  of  age.  The  effort  to 
raise  funds  for  this  enterprise  led  me  into  the  lecture-field  and 
here  I  found  my  cavalry-raid  and  army  life  in  general  exceed 
ingly  useful.  I  looked  around  for  a  patch  of  garden-ground  as 
instinctively  as  a  duck  seeks  water.  The  small  plot  adjoin 
ing  the  parsonage  speedily  grew  into  about  three  acres,  from 
which  eventually  came  a  book  entitled  "Play  and  Profit  in  my 
Garden." 

Up  to  the  year  1871  I  had  written  little  for  publication  be 
yond  occasional  contributions  to  the  New  York  "Evangelist," 
nor  had  I  seriously  contemplated  a  literary  life.  I  had  always 
been  extremely  fond  of  fiction,  and.  from  boyhood  had  formed 
a  habit  of  beguiling  the  solitary  hours  in  weaving  crude  fancies 
around  people  who  for  any  reason  interested  me.  I  usually  had 
a  mental  serial  running,  to  which  I  returned  when  it  was  my 
mood;  but  I  had  never  written  even  a  short  story.  In  October, 
1871,  I  was  asked  to  preach  for  a  far  uptown  congregation  in 
New  York,  with  the  possibility  of  a  settlement  in  view.  On 
Monday  following  the  services  of  the  Sabbath,  the  officers  of 
the  church  were  kind  enough  to  ask  me  to  spend  a  week  with 


"A    NATIVE   AUTHOR    CALLED    ROE"  21 

them  and  visit  among  the  people.  Meantime,  the  morning 
papers  laid  before  us  the  startling  fact  that  the  city  of  Chicago 
was  burning  and  that  its  population  were  becoming  homeless. 
The  tidings  impressed  me  powerfully,  waking  the  deepest  sym 
pathy.  I  said  to  myself,  "Here  is  a  phase  of  life  as  remarkable 
as  any  witnessed  during  the  war."  I  obeyed  the  impulse  to 
be  on  the  scene  as  soon  as  possible,  stated  my  purpose  to  my 
friends,  and  was  soon  among  the  smoking  ruins,  finding  an 
abiding-place  with  throngs  of  others  in  a  partially  finished  ho 
tel.  For  days  and  nights  I  wandered  where  a  city  had  been,  and 
among  the  extemporized  places  of  refuge  harboring  all  classes 
of  people.  Late  one  night  I  sat  for  a  long  time  on  the  steps 
of  Robert  Collyer's  church  and  watched  the  full  moon  through 
the  roofless  walls  and  shattered  steeple.  There  was  not  an 
evidence  of  life  where  had  been  populous  streets.  It  was  there 
and  then,  as  nearly  as  I  can  remember,  that  the  vague  outlines 
of  my  first  story,  "Barriers  Burned  Away,"  began  to  take  form  in 
my  mind.  I  soon  returned  home,  and  began  to  dream  and  write, 
giving  during  the  following  year  such  hours  as  could  be  with 
drawn  from  many  other  duties  to  the  construction  of  the  story. 
I  wrote  when  and  where  I  could — on  steamboats,  in  railway 
cars,  and  at  all  odd  hours  of  leisure,  often  with  long  breaks  in 
the  work  of  composition,  caused  by  the  pressure  of  other  affairs, 
again  getting  up  a  sort  of  white  heat  from  incessantly  dwelling 
upon  scenes  and  incidents  that  had  become  real  to  me.  In  brief, 
the  story  took  possession  of  my  mind,  and  grew  as  naturally  as 
a  plant  or  a  weed  in  my  garden. 

It  will  thus  be  obvious  that  at  nearly  middle  age,  and  in  obe 
dience  to  an  impulse,  I  was  launched  as  an  author;  that  I  had 
very  slight  literary  training;  and  that  my  appearance  as  a  novel 
ist  was  quite  as  great  a  surprise  to  myself  as  to  any  of  my 
friends.  The  writing  of  sermons  certainly  does  not  prepare  one 
for  the  construction  of  a  novel;  and  to  this  day  certain  critics 
contemptuously  dismiss  my  books  as  "preaching."  During 
nearly  four  years  of  army  life,  at  a  period  when  most  young  men 
are  forming  style  and  making  the  acquaintance  of  literature,  I 
scarcely  had  a  chance  to  read  at  all.  The  subsequent  years  of 
the  pastorate  were  too  active,  except  for  an  occasional  dip  into 
a  favorite  author. 

While  writing  my  first  story,  I  rarely  thought  of  the  public, 


22        "A  NATIVE  AUTHOR  CALLED  ROE" 

the  characters  and  their  experiences  absorbing  me  wholly.  When 
my  narrative  was  actually  in  print,  there  was  wakened  a  very 
deep  interest  as  to  its  reception.  I  had  none  of  the  confidence 
resulting  from  the  gradual  testing  of  one's  power  or  from  asso 
ciation  with  literary  people,  and  I  also  was  aware  that,  when 
published,  a  book  was  far  away  from  the  still  waters  of  which 
one's  friends  are  the  protecting  headlands.  That  I  knew  my 
work  to  be  exceedingly  faulty  goes  without  saying;  that  it  was 
utterly  bad,  I  was  scarcely  ready  to  believe.  Dr.  Field,  noted 
for  his  pure  English  diction  and  taste,  would  not  publish  an 
irredeemable  story,  and  the  constituency  of  the  New  York 
"Evangelist"  is  well  known  to  be  one  of  the  most  intelligent  in 
the  country.  Friendly  opinions  from  serial  readers  were  re 
assuring  as  far  as  they  went,  but  of  course  the  great  majority  of 
those  who  followed  the  story  were  silent.  A  writer  cannot,  like 
a  speaker,  look  into  the  eyes  of  his  audience  and  observe  its 
mental  attitude  toward  his  thought.  If  my  memory  serves  me, 
Mr.  R.  R.  Bowker  was  the  earliest  critic  to  write  some  friendly 
words  in  the  "Evening  Mail;"  but  at  first  my  venture  was  very 
generally  ignored.  Then  some  unknown  friend  marked  an  in 
fluential  journal  published  in  the  interior  of  the  State  and  mailed 
it  so  timely  that  it  reached  me  on  Christmas  eve.  I  doubt  if  a 
book  was  ever  more  unsparingly  condemned  than  mine  in  that  re 
view,  whose  final  words  were,  "The  story  is  absolutely  nauseat 
ing."  In  this  instance  and  in  my  salad  days  I  took  pains  to  find 
out  who  the  writer  was,  for  if  his  view  was  correct  I  certainly 
should  not  engage  in  further  efforts  to  make  the  public  ill.  I 
discovered  the  reviewer  to  be  a  gentleman  for  whom  I  have  ever 
had  the  highest  respect  as  an  editor,  legislator,  and  honest 
thinker.  My  story  made  upon  him  just  the  impression  he  ex 
pressed,  and  it  would  be  very  stupid  on  my  part  to  blink  the  fact. 
Meantime,  the  book  was  rapidly  making  for  itself  friends  and 
passing  into  frequent  new  editions.  Even  the  editor  who  con 
demned  the  work  would  not  assert  that  those  who  bought  it 
were  an  aggregation  of  asses.  People  cannot  be  found  by  thou 
sands  who  will  pay  a  dollar  and  seventy-five  cents  for  a  dime 
novel  or  a  religious  tract.  I  wished  to  learn  the  actual  truth 
more  sincerely  than  any  critic  to  write  it,  and  at  last  I  ven 
tured  to  take  a  copy  to  Mr.  George  Ripley,  of  the  New  York 
"Tribune."  "Here  is  a  man,"  I  thought,  "whose  fame  and  po- 


•'A    NATIVE   AUTHOR    CALLED   ROE"  23 

sition  as  a  critic  are  recognized  by  all.  If  he  deigns  to  notice 
the  book,  he  will  not  only  say  what  he  thinks,  but  I  shall  have 
much  reason  to  thjnk  as  he  does."  Mr.  Ripley  met  the  diffident 
author  kindly,  asked  a  few  questions,  and  took  the  volume.  A 
few  weeks  later,  to  my  great  surprise,  he  gave  over  a  column  to 
a  review  of  the  story.  Although  not  blind  to  its  many  faults, 
he  wrote  words  far  more  friendly  and  inspiring  than  I  ever 
hoped  to  see;  it  would  seem  that  the  public  had  sanctioned  his 
verdict.  From  that  day  to  this  these  two  instances  have  been 
types  of  my  experience  with  many  critics,  one  condemning, 
another  commending.  There  is  ever  a  third  class  who  prove 
their  superiority  by  sneering  at  or  ignoring  what  is  closely  re 
lated  to  the  people.  Much  thought  over  my  experience  led  to  a 
conclusion  which  the  passing  years  confirm:  the  only  thing  for 
a  writer  is  to  be  himself  and  take  the  consequences.  Even  those 
who  regard  me  as  a  literary  offender  of  the  blackest  dye  have 
never  named  imitation  among  my  sins. 

As  successive  books  appeared,  I  began  to  recognize  more 
and  more  clearly  another  phase  of  an  author's  experience.  A 
writer  gradually  forms  a  constituency,  certain  qualities  in  his 
book  appealing  to  certain  classes  of  minds.  In  my  own  case,  I 
do  not  mean  classes  of  people  looked  at  from  the  social  point 
of  view.  A  writer  who  takes  any  hold  on  popular  attention  in 
evitably  learns  the  character  of  his  constituency.  He  appeals, 
and  minds  and  temperaments  in  sympathy  respond.  Those  he 
cannot  touch  go  on  their  way  indifferently;  those  he  offends 
may  often  strike  back.  This  is  the  natural  result  of  any  strong 
assertion  of  individuality.  Certainly,  if  I  had  my  choice,  I 
would  rather  write  a  book  interesting  to  the  young  and  to  the 
common  people,  whom  Lincoln  said  "God  must  love,  since  He 
made  so  many  of  them."  The  former  are  open  to  influence; 
the  latter  can  be  quickened  and  prepared  for  something  better. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  find  that  there  are  those  in  all  classes 
whom  my  books  attract,  others  who  are  repelled,  as  I  have 
said.  It  is  perhaps  one  of  the  pleasantest  experiences  of  an 
author's  life  to  learn  from  letters  and  in  other  ways  that  he  is 
forming  a  circle  of  friends,  none  the  less  friendly  because  per 
sonally  unknown.  Their  loyalty  is  both  a  safeguard  and  an 
inspiration.  On  one  hand,  the  writer  shrinks  from  abusing 
such  regard  by  careless  work;  on  the  other,  he  is  stimulated 


24  "^ 

and  encouraged  by  the  feeling  that  there  is  a  group  in  waiting 
who  will  appreciate  his  best  endeavor.  While  I  clearly  recog 
nize  my  limitations,  and  have  no  wish  to  emulate  the  frog  in  the 
fable,  I  can  truthfully  say  that  I  take  increasing  pains  with  each 
story,  aiming  to  verify  every  point  by  experience-5— my  own  or 
that  of  others.  Not  long  since,  a  critic  asserted  that  changes 
in  one  of  my  characters,  resulting  from  total  loss  of  memory, 
were  preposterously  impossible.  If  the  critic  had  consulted 
Ribot's  "Diseases  of  Memory,"  or  some  experienced  physician, 
he  might  have  written  more  justly.  I  do  not  feel  myself  com 
petent  to  form  a  valuable  opinion  as  to  good  art  in  writing,  and 
I  cannot  help  observing  that  the  art  doctors  disagree  wofully 
among  themselves.  Truth  to  nature  and  the  realities,  and  not 
the  following  of  any  school  or  fashion,  has  ever  seemed  the 
safest  guide.  I  sometimes  venture  to  think  I  know  a  little  about 
human  nature.  My  active  life  brought  me  in  close  contact 
with  all  kinds  of  people;  there  was  no  man  in  my  regiment  who 
hesitated  to  come  to  my  tent  or  to  talk  confidentially  by  the 
campfire,  while  scores  of  dying  men  laid  bare  to  me  their  hearts. 
I  at  least  know  the  nature  that  exists  in  the  human  breast.  It 
may  be  inartistic,  or  my  use  of  it  all  wrong.  That  is  a  ques 
tion  which  time  will  decide,  and  I  shall  accept  the  verdict.  Over 
twelve  years  ago,  certain  oracles,  with  the  voice  of  fate,  pre 
dicted  my  speedy  eclipse  and  disappearance.  Are  they  right 
in  their  adverse  judgment?  I  can  truthfully  say  that  now, 
as  at  the  first,  I  wish  to  know  the  facts  in  the  case.  The  mo 
ment  an  author  is  conceited  about  his  work,  he  becomes  absurd 
and  is  passing  into  a  hopeless  condition.  If  worthy  to  write  at 
all,  he  knows  that  fie  falls  far  short  of  his  ideals;  if  honest,  he 
wishes  to  be  estimated  at  his  true  worth,  and  to  cast  behind 
him  the  mean  little  Satan  of  vanity.  If  he  walks  under  a  con 
scious  sense  of  greatness,  he  is  a  ridiculous  figure,  for  behold 
ers  remember  the  literary  giants  of  other  days  and  of  his  own 
time,  and  smile  at  the  airs  of  the  comparatively  little  man.  On 
the  other  hand,  no  self-respecting  writer  should  ape  the  false 
deprecating  "  'umbleness"  of  Uriah  Heep.  In  short,  he  wishes 
to  pass,  like  a  coin,  for  just  what  he  is  worth.  Mr.  Matthew 
Arnold  was  ludicrously  unjust  to  the  West  when  he  wrote,  "The 
Western  States  are  at  this  moment  being  nourished  and  formed, 
we  hear,  on  the  novels  of  a  native  author  called  Roe."  Why 


"A    NATIVE   AUTHOR    CALLED   ROE"  25 

could  not  Mr.  Arnold  have  taken  a  few  moments  to  look  into 
the  bookstores  of  the  great  cities  of  the  West,  in  order  to  ob 
serve  for  himself  how  the  demand  of  one  of  the  largest  and 
most  intelligent  reading  publics  in  the  world  is  supplied?  He 
would  have  found  that  the  works  of  Scott  and  Dickens  were 
more  liberally  purchased  and  generally  read  than  in  his  own 
land  of  "distinction."  He  should  have  discovered  when  in  this 
country  that  American  statesmen  (?)  are  so  solicitous  about  the 
intelligence  of  their  constituents  that  they  give  publishers  so 
disposed  every  opportunity  to  steal  novels  describing  the  no 
bility  and  English  persons  of  distinction ;  that  tons  of  such  novels 
have  been  sold  annually  in  the  West,  a  thousand  to  one  of  the 
"author  called  Roe."  The  simple  truth  in  the  case  is  that  in 
spite  of  this  immense  and  cheap  competition,  my  novels  have 
made  their  way  and  are  being  read  among  multitudes  of  others. 
No  one  buys  or  reads  a  book  under  compulsion;  and  if  any  one 
thinks  that  the  poorer  the  book  the  better  the  chance  of  its  be 
ing  read  by  the  American  people,  let  him  try  the  experiment 
When  a  critic  condemns  my  books,  I  accept  that  as  his  judg 
ment;  when  another  critic  and  scores  of  men  and  women,  the 
peers  of  the  first  in  cultivation  and  intelligence,  commend  the 
books,  I  do  not  charge  them  with  gratuitous  lying.  My  one 
aim  has  become  to  do  my  work  conscientiously  and  leave  the 
final  verdict  to  time  and  the  public.  I  wish  no  other  estimate 
than  a  correct  one;  and  when  the  public  indicate  that  they  have 
had  enough  of  Roe,  I  shall  neither  whine  nor  write. 

As  a  rule,  I  certainly  stumble  on  my  stories,  as  well  as  stum 
ble  through  them  perhaps.  Some  incident  or  unexpected  im 
pulse  is  the  beginning  of  their  existence.  One  October  day  I 
was  walking  on  a  country  road,  and  a  chestnut  burr  lay  in  my 
path.  I  said  to  myself,  "There  is  a  book  in  that  burr,  if  I  could 
get  it  out."  With  little  volition  on  my  part,  the  story  "Opening 
a  Chestnut  Burr"  took  form  and  was  written. 

One  summer  evening,  when  in  New  York,  I  went  up  to 
Thomas's  Garden,  near  Central  Park,  to  hear  the  delicious  music 
he  was  educating  us  to  appreciate.  At  a  certain  point  in  the 
programme  I  noticed  that  the  next  piece  would  be  Beethoven's 
Fifth  Symphony,  and  I  glanced  around  with  a  sort  of  congratu 
latory  impulse,  as  much  as  to  say,  "Now  we  shall  have  a  treat." 
My  attention  was  immediately  arrested  and  fixed  by  a  young  girl 


26  "A    NATIVE   AUTHOR   CALLED   ROE" 

who,  with  the  gentleman  escorting  her,  was  sitting  near  by.  My 
first  impression  of  her  face  was  one  of  marvellous  beauty,  fol 
lowed  by  a  sense  of  dissatisfaction.  Such  was  my  distance  that 
I  could  not  annoy  her  by  furtive  observation;  and  I  soon  dis 
covered  that  she  would  regard  a  stare  as  a  tribute.  Why  was  it 
that  her  face  was  so  beautiful,  yet  so  displeasing?  Each  feature 
analyzed  seemed  perfection,  yet  the  general  effect  was  a  mock 
ing,  ill-kept  promise.  The  truth  was  soon  apparent.  The  ex 
pression  was  not  evil,  but  frivolous,  silly,  unredeemed  by  any 
genuine  womanly  grace.  She  giggled  and  flirted  through  the 
sublime  symphony,  till  in  exasperation  I  went  out  into  the  prom 
enade  under  the  open  sky.  In  less  than  an  hour  I  had  my  story, 
"A  Face  Illumined."  I  imagined  an  artist  seeing  what  I  had 
seen  and  feeling  a  stronger  vexation  in  the  wounding  of  his 
beauty  loving  nature;  that  he  learned  during  the  evening  that 
the  girl  was  a  relative  of  a  close  friend,  and  that  a  sojourn  at  a 
summer  hotel  on  the  Hudson  was  in  prospect.  On  his  return 
home  he  conceives  the  idea  of  painting  the  girl's  features  and 
giving  them  a  harmonious  expression.  Then  the  fancy  takes  him 
that  the  girl  is  a  modern  Undine  and  has  not  yet  received  her 
woman's  soul.  The  story  relates  his  effort  to  beautify,  illumine 
the  face  itself  by  evoking  a  mind.  I  never  learned  who  was  the 
actual  girl  with  the  features  of  an  angel  and  the  face  of  a  fool. 

In  the  case  of  "He  Fell  in  Love  with  His  Wife,"  I  merely 
saw  a  paragraph  in  a  paper  to  the  effect  that  a  middle-aged 
widower,  having  found  it  next  to  impossible  to  carry  on  his 
farm  with  hired  help,  had  gone  to  the  county  poorhouse  and  said, 
"If  there's  a  decent  woman  here,  I'll  marry  her."  For  years  the 
homely  item  remained  an  ungerminating  seed  in  my  mind,  then 
started  to  grow,  and  the  story  was  written  in  two  months. 

My  war  experience  has  naturally  made  the  picturesque  phases 
of  the  Great  Conflict  attractive  material.  In  the  future  I  hope 
to  avail  myself  still  further  of  interesting  periods  in  American 
history. 

I  find  that  my  love  of  horticulture  and  outdoor  life  has  grown 
with  the  years.  I  do  not  pretend  to  scientific  accuracy  or  knowl 
edge.  On  the  contrary,  I  have  regarded  plants  and  birds  rather 
as  neighbors,  and  have  associated  with  them.  When  giving  up 
my  parish,  I  bought  a  place  in  the  near  vicinity  of  the  house  in 
which  I  had  spent  my  childhood.  The  front  windows  of  our 


"A    NATIVE   AUTHOR   CALLED  ROE"  27 

house  command  a  noble  view  of  the  Hudson,  while  on  the  east 
and  south  the  Highlands  are  within  rifle-shot.  For  several  years 
I  hesitated  to  trust  solely  to  literary  work  for  support.  As  I 
have  said,  not  a  few  critics  insisted  that  my  books  should  not 
be  read,  and  would  soon  cease  to  be  read.  But  whether  the  pre 
diction  should  prove  true  or  not,  I  knew  in  any  case  that  the 
critics  themselves  would  eat  my  strawberries ;  so  I  made  the  cul 
ture  of  small  fruits  the  second  string  to  my  bow.  This  busi 
ness  speedily  took  the  form  of  growing  plants  for  sale,  and  was 
developing  rapidly,  when  financial  misfortune  led  to  my  failure 
and  the  devotion  of  my  entire  time  to  writing.  Perhaps  it  was 
just  as  well  in  the  end,  for  my  health  was  being  undermined  by 
too  great  and  conflicting  demands  on  my  energy.  In  1878,  at 
Dr.  Holland's  request,  I  wrote  a  series  of  papers  on  small  fruits 
for  "Scribner's  Magazine" — papers  that  were  expanded  into  a 
book  entitled  "Success  with  Small  Fruits."  I  now  aim  merely 
at  an  abundant  home  supply  of  fruits  and  vegetables,  but  in  se 
curing  this,  find  pleasure  and  profit  in  testing  the  many  varieties 
catalogued  and  offered  by  nurserymen  and  seedsmen.  About 
three  years  ago  the  editor  of  "Harper's  Magazine"  asked  me  to 
write  one  or  two  papers  entitled  "One  Acre,"  telling  its  possessor 
how  to  make  the  most  and  best  of  it.  When  entering  on  the 
task,  I  found  there  was  more  in  it  than  I  had  at  first  supposed. 
Changing  the  title  to  "The  Home  Acre,"  I  decided  to  write  a 
book  or  manual  which  might  be  useful  in  many  rural  homes. 
There  are  those  who  have  neither  time  nor  inclination  to  read 
the  volumes  and  journals  devoted  to  horticulture,  who  yet  have 
gardens  and  trees  in  which  they  are  interested.  They  wish  to 
learn  in  the  shortest,  clearest  way  just  what  to  do  in  order  to 
secure  success,  without  going  into  theories,  whys,  and  wherefores, 
or  concerning  themselves  with  the  higher  mysteries  of  garden- 
lore.  This  work  is  now  in  course  of  preparation.  In  brief,  my 
aim  is  to  have  the  book  grow  out  of  actual  experience,  and  not 
merely  my  own,  either.  As  far  as  possible,  well-known  experts 
and  authorities  are  consulted  on  every  point.  As  a  natural  con 
sequence,  the  book  is  growing,  like  the  plants  to  which  it  relates. 
It  cannot  be  written  "offhand"  or  finished  "on  time"  to  suit  any 
one  except  Dame  Nature,  who,  being  feminine,  is  often  inscru 
table  and  apparently  capricious.  The  experience  of  one  season 

is  often  reversed  in  the  next,  and  the  guide  in  gardening  of  whom 
2— ROE— XI 


28  "A    NATIVE  AUTHOR   CALLED   ROE" 

I  am  most  afraid  is  the  man  who  is  always  sure  he  is  right.  It 
was  my  privilege  to  have  the  late  Mr.  Charles  Downing  as  one  of 
my  teachers,  and  well  do  I  remember  how  that  honest,  sagacious, 
yet  docile  student  of  nature  would  "put  on  the  brakes"  when  I 
was  passing  too  rapidly  to  conclusions.  It  has  always  been  one 
of  my  most  cherished  purposes  to  interest  people  in  the  cultivation 
of  the  soil  and  rural  life.  My  effort  is  to  "boil  down"  information 
to  the  simplest  and  most  practical  form.  Last  spring,  hundreds 
of  varieties  of  vegetables  and  small  fruits  were  planted.  A  care 
fully  written  record  is  being  kept  from  the  time  of  planting  un 
til  the  crop  is  gathered. 

My  methods  of  work  are  briefly  these:  I  go  into  my  study 
immediately  after  breakfast — usually  about  nine  o'clock — and 
write  or  study  until  three  or  four  in  the  afternoon,  stopping 
only  for  a  light  lunch.  In  the  early  morning  and  late  after 
noon  I  go  around  my  place,  giving  directions  to  the  men,  and  ob 
serving  the  condition  of  vegetables,  flowers,  and  trees,  and  the 
general  aspect  of  nature  at  the  time.  After  dinner,  the  evening 
is  devoted  to  the  family,  friends,  newspapers,  and  light  reading. 
In  former  years  I  wrote  at  night,  but  after  a  severe  attack  of 
insomnia  this  practice  was  almost  wholly  abandoned.  As  a  rule, 
the  greater  part  of  a  year  is  absorbed  in  the  production  of  a 
novel,  and  I  am  often  gathering  material  for  several  years  in  ad 
vance  of  writing. 

For  manuscript  purposes  I  use  bound  blankbooks  of  cheap 
paper.  My  sheets  are  thus  kept  securely  together  and  in  place 
— important  considerations  in  view  of  the  gales  often  blowing 
through  my  study  and  the  habits  of  a  careless  man.  This 
method  offers  peculiar  advantages  for  interpolation,  as  there  is 
always  a  blank  page  opposite  the  one  on  which  I  am  writing. 
After  correcting  the  manuscript,  it  is  put  in  typewriting  and 
again  revised.  There  are  also  two  revisions  of  the  proof.  While 
I  do  not  shirk  the  tasks  which  approach  closely  to  drudgery,  es 
pecially  since  my  eyesight  is  not  so  good  as  it  was,  I  also  obtain 
expert  assistance.  I  find  that  when  a  page  has  become  very 
familiar  and  I  am  rather  tired  of  it,  my  mind  wanders  from  the 
close,  fixed  attention  essential  to  the  best  use  of  words.  Perhaps 
few  are  endowed  with  both  the  inventive  and  the  critical  faculty. 
A  certain  inner  sense  enables  one  to  know,  according  to  his  lights, 
whether  the  story  itself  is  true  or  false;  but  elegance  of  style  is 


"A    NATIVE   AUTHOR    CALLED   ROE"  29 

due  chiefly  to  training,  to  a  cultivation  like  that  of  the  ear  for 
music.  Possibly  we  are  entering  on  an  age  in  which  the  people 
care  less  for  form,  for  phraseology,  than  for  what  seems  to  them 
true,  real — for  what,  as  they  would  express  it,  "takes  hold  of 
them."  This  is  no  plea  or  excuse  for  careless  work,  but  rather  a 
suggestion  that  the  day  of  prolix,  fine,  flowery  writing  is  passing. 
The  immense  number  of  well-written  books  in  circulation  has 
made  success  with  careless,  slovenly  manuscripts  impossible. 
Publishers  and  editors  will  not  even  read,  much  less  publish  them. 
Simplicity,  lucidity,  strength,  a  plunge  in  medias  res,  are  now  the 
qualities  and  conditions  chiefly  desired,  rather  than  finely  turned 
sentences  in  which  it  is  apparent  more  labor  has  been  expended 
on  the  vehicle  than  on  what  it  contains.  The  questions  of  this 
eager  age  are,  What  has  he  to  say?  Does  it  interest  us?  As 
an  author,  I  have  felt  that  my  only  chance  of  gaining  and  keep 
ing  the  attention  of  men  and  women  was  to  know,  to  understand 
them,  to  feel  with  and  for  them  in  what  constituted  their  life. 
Failing  to  do  this,  why  should  a  line  of  my  books  be  read? 
Who  reads  a  modern  novel  from  sense  of  duty?  There  are 
classics  which  all  must  read  and  pretend  to  enjoy  whether 
capable  of  doing  so  or  not.  No  critic  has  ever  been  so  daft  as 
to  call  any  of  my  books  a  classic.  Better  books  are  unread  be 
cause  the  writer  is  not  en  rapport  with  the  reader.  The  time 
has  passed  when  either  the  theologian,  the  politician,  or  the 
critic  can  take  the  American  citizen  metaphorically  by  the 
shoulder  and  send  him  along  the  path  in  which  they  think  he 
should  go.  He  has  become  the  most  independent  being  in  the 
world,  good-humoredly  tolerant  of  the  beliefs  and  fancies  of 
others,  while  reserving,  as  a  matter  of  course,  the  right  to  think 
for  himself. 

In  appealing  to  the  intelligent  American  public,  choosing  for 
itself  among  the  multitude  of  books  now  offered,  it  is  my  creed 
that  an  author  should  maintain  completely  and  thoroughly  his 
own  individuality,  and  take  the  consequences.  He  cannot  con 
jure  strongly  by  imitating  any  one,  or  by  representing  any  school 
or  fashion.  He  must  do  his  work  conscientiously,  for  his  read 
ers  know  by  instinct  whether  or  not  they  are  treated  seriously 
and  with  respect.  Above  all,  he  must  understand  men  and 
women  sufficiently  to  interest  them;  for  all  the  "powers  that  be" 
cannot  compel  them  to  read  a  book  they  do  not  like. 


30  "A    NATIVE   AUTHOR    CALLED    ROE" 

My  early  experience  in  respect  to  my  books  in  the  British 
Dominions  has  been  similar  to  that  of  many  others.  My  first 
stories  were  taken  by  one  or  more  publishers  without  saying 
"by  your  leave,"  and  no  returns  made  of  any  kind.  As  time 
passed,  Messrs.  Ward,  Locke  &  Co.,  more  than  any  other  house, 
showed  a  disposition  to  treat  me  fairly.  Increasing  sums  were 
given  for  successive  books.  Recently  Mr.  George  Locke  visited 
me,  and  offered  liberal  compensation  for  each  new  novel.  He 
also  agreed  to  give  me  five  per  cent  copyright  on  all  my  old 
books  published  by  him,  no  matter  how  obtained,  in  some  in 
stances  revoking  agreements  which  precluded  the  making  of 
any  such  request  on  my  part.  In  the  case  of  many  of  these 
books  he  has  no  protection,  for  they  are  published  by  others;  but 
he  takes  the  simple  ground  that  he  will  not  sell  any  of  my 
books  without  giving  me  a  share  in  the  profit.  Such  honorable 
action  should  tend  to  make  piracy  more  odious  than  ever,  on 
both  sides  of  the  sea.  Other  English  firms  have  offered  me  the 
usual  royalty,  and  I  now  believe  that  in  spite  of  our  House  of 
Mis-Representatives  at  Washington,  the  majority  of  the  British 
publishers  are  disposed  to  deal  justly  and  honorably  by  Ameri 
can  writers.  In  my  opinion,  the  Lower  House  in  Congress  has 
libelled  and  slandered  the  American  people  by  acting  as  if  their 
constituents,  with  thievish  instincts,  chuckled  over  pennies  saved 
when  buying  pirated  books.  This  great,  rich,  prosperous  nation 
has  been  made  a  "fence,"  a  receiver  of  stolen  goods,  and  shame 
lessly  committed  to  the  crime  for  which  poor  wretches  are  sent 
to  jail.  Truly,  when  history  is  written,  and  it  is  learned  that 
the  whole  power  and  statesmanship  of  the  government  were  en 
listed  in  behalf  of  the  pork  interest,  while  the  literature  of  the 
country  and  the  literary  class  were  contemptuously  ignored,  it 
may  be  that  the  present  period  will  become  known  as  the  Pork 
Era  of  the  Republic.  It  is  a  strange  fact  that  English  publish 
ers  are  recognizing  our  rights  in  advance  of  our  own  lawmakers. 

In  relating  his  experience  in  the  pages  of  this  magazine,  Mr. 
Julian  Hawthorne  said  in  effect  that  one  of  the  best  rewards  of 
the  literary  life  was  the  friends  it  enabled  the  writer  to  make. 
When  giving  me  his  friendship,  he  proved  how  true  this  is.  In 
my  experience  the  literary  class  make  good,  genial,  honest 
friends,  while  their  keen,  alert  minds  and  knowledge  of  life  in 
many  of  its  most  interesting  aspects  give  an  unfailing  charm  to 


"A    NATIVE   AUTHOR    CALLED    ROE"  31 

their  society.  One  can  maintain  the  most  cordial  and  intimate 
relations  with  editors  of  magazines  and  journals  if  he  will  recog 
nize  that  such  relations  should  have  no  influence  whatever  in  the 
acceptance  or  declination  of  manuscripts.  I  am  constantly  re 
ceiving  letters  from  literary  aspirants  who  appear  to  think  that  if 
I  will  use  a  little  influence  their  stories  or  papers  would  be  taken 
and  paid  for.  I  have  no  such  influence,  nor  do  I  wish  any,  in 
regard  to  my  own  work.  The  conscientious  editor's  first  duty 
is  to  his  periodical  and  its  constituents,  and  he  would  and  should 
be  more  scrupulous  in  accepting  a  manuscript  from  a  friend  than 
from  a  stranger.  To  show  resentment  because  a  manuscript  is 
returned  is  absurd,  however  great  may  be  our  disappointment. 

Perhaps  one  of  the  most  perplexing  and  often  painful  expe 
riences  of  an  author  comes  from  the  appeals  of  those  who  hope 
through  him  to  obtain  immediate  recognition  as  writers.  One 
is  asked  to  read  manuscripts  and  commend  them  to  publishers, 
or  at  least  to  give  an  opinion  in  regard  to  them,  often  to  revise 
or  even  to  rewrite  certain  portions.  I  remember  that  during 
one  month  I  was  asked  to  do  work  on  the  manuscripts  of 
strangers  that  would  require  about  a  year  of  my  time.  The  maker 
of  such  request  does  not  realize  that  he  or  she  is  but  one  among 
many,  and  that  the  poor  author  would  have  to  abandon  all  hope 
of  supporting  his  family  if  he  tried  to  comply.  The  majority 
who  thus  appeal  to  one  know  next  to  nothing  of  the  literary  life 
or  the  conditions  of  success.  They  write  to  the  author  in  perfect 
good  faith,  often  relating  circumstances  which  touch  his  sympa 
thies  ;  yet  if  you  tell  them  the  truth  about  their  manuscript,  or  say 
you  have  not  time  to  read  it,  adding  that  you  have  no  influence 
with  editors  or  publishers  beyond  securing  a  careful  examination 
of  what  is  written,  you  feel  that  you  are  often  set  down  as  a 
churl,  and  your  inability  to  comply  with  their  wishes  is  regarded 
as  the  selfishness  and  arrogance  of  success.  The  worried  author 
has  also  his  own  compunctions,  for  while  he  has  tried  so  often  and 
vainly  to  secure  the  recognition  requested,  till  he  is  in  despair  of 
such  effort,  he  still  is  haunted  by  the  fear  that  he  may  overlook 
some  genius  whom  it  would  be  a  delight  to  guide  through  what 
seems  a  thorny  jungle  to  the  inexperienced. 

In  recalling  the  past,  one  remembers  when  he  stood  in  such 
sore  need  of  friends  that  he  dislikes  even  the  appearance  of  pass 
ing  by  on  the  other  side.  There  are  no  riches  in  the  world  like 


32  "A    NATIVE    AUTHOR    CALLED    ROE" 

stanch  friends  who  prove  themselves  to  be  such  in  your  need, 
your  adversity,  or  your  weakness.  I  have  some  treasured  let 
ters  received  after  it  had  been  telegraphed  throughout  the  land 
that  I  was  a  bankrupt  and  had  found  myself  many  thousands  of 
dollars  worse  off  than  nothing.  The  kindly  words  and  looks,  the 
cordial  grasp  of  the  hand,  and  the  temporary  loan  occasionally, 
of  those  who  stood  by  me  when  scarcely  sane  from  overwork, 
trouble,  and,  worse  than  all,  from  insomnia,  can  never  be  for 
gotten  while  a  trace  of  memory  is  left.  Soon  after  my  insol 
vency  there  came  a  date  when  all  my  interests  in  my  books  then 
published  must  be  sold  to  the  highest  bidder.  It  seemed  in  a 
sense  like  putting  my  children  up  at  auction;  and  yet  I  was 
powerless,  since  my  interests  under  contracts  were  a  part  of  my 
assets.  These  rights  had  been  well  advertised  in  the  New  York 
and  county  papers,  as  the  statute  required,  and  the  popularity  of 
the  books  was  well  known.  Any  one  in  the  land  could  have  pur 
chased  these  books  from  me  forever.  A  friend  made  the  highest 
bid  and  secured  the  property.  My  rights  in  my  first  nine  novels 
became  his,  legally  and  absolutely.  There  was  even  no  verbal 
agreement  between  us — nothing  but  his  kind,  honest  eyes  to  re 
assure  me.  He  not  only  paid  the  sum  he  had  bidden,  but  then 
and  there  wrote  a  check  for  a  sum  which,  with  my  other  assets, 
immediately  liquidated  my  personal  debts,  principal  and  inter 
est.  The  children  of  my  fancy  are  again  my  children,  for  they 
speedily  earned  enough  to  repay  my  friend  and  to  enable  him  to 
compromise  with  the  holders  of  indorsed  notes  in  a  way  satis 
factory  to  them.  It  so  happened  that  most  of  these  creditors  re 
sided  in  my  immediate  neighborhood.  I  determined  to  fight  out 
the  battle  in  their  midst  and  under  their  daily  observation,  and  to 
treat  all  alike,  without  regard  to  their  legal  claims.  Only  one 
creditor  tried  to  make  life  a  burden;  but  he  did  his  level  best. 
The  others  permitted  me  to  meet  my  obligations  in  my  own  time 
and  way,  and  I  am  grateful  for  their  consideration.  When  all 
had  received  the  sum  mutually  agreed  upon,  and  I  had  shaken 
hands  with  them,  I  went  to  the  quaint  and  quiet  little  city  of 
Santa  Barbara,  on  the  Pacific  coast,  for  a  change  and  partial  rest. 
While  there,  however,  I  wrote  my  Charleston  story,  "The  Earth 
Trembled."  In  September,  1887,  I  returned  to  my  home  at 
Cornwall-on-the-Hudson,  and  resumed  my  work  in  a  region  made 


"A    NATIVE   AUTHOR    CALLED   ROE"  SB 

dear  by  the  memories  of  a  lifetime.  Just  now  I  am  completing  a 
Southern  story  entitled  "Miss  Lou." 

It  so  happens  in  my  experience  that  I  have  discovered  one 
who  appears  willing  to  stick  closer  to  me  than  a  brother,  and 
even  to  pass  as  my  "double,"  or  else  he  is  so  helplessly  in  the 
hands  of  his  publishers  as  to  be  an  object  of  pity.  A  certain 
"Edward  R.  Roe"  is  also  an  author,  and  is  suffering  cruelly  in 
reputation  because  his  publishers  so  manage  that  he  is  identified 
with  me.  By  strange  coincidence,  they  hit  upon  a  cover  for  his 
book  which  is  almost  a  facsimile  of  the  cover  of  my  pamphlet 
novel,  "An  Original  Belle,"  previously  issued.  The  R  in  the 
name  of  this  unfortunate  man  has  been  furnished  with  such  a 
diminutive  tail  that  it  passes  for  a  P,  and  even  my  friends  sup 
posed  that  the  book,  offered  everywhere  for  sale,  was  mine.  In 
many  instances  I  have  asked  at  news  stands,  "Whose  book  is 
that?"  The  prompt  and  invariable  answer  has  been,  "E.  P. 
Roe's."  I  have  seen  book  notices  in  which  the  volume  was  as 
cribed  to  me  in  anything  but  flattering  terms.  A  distinguished 
judge,  in  a  carefully  written  opinion,  is  so  uncharitable  as  to 
characterize  the  coincidence  in  cover  as  a  "fraud,"  and  to  say, 
"No  one  can  look  at  the  covers  of  the  two  publications  and  fail  to 
see  evidence  of  a  design  to  deceive  the  public  and  to  infringe 
upon  the  rights  of  the  publisher  and  author" — that  is,  the  rights 
of  Messrs.  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.  and  of  E.  P.  Roe.  Some  well- 
known  journalists  show  honest  indignation,  and  also  employ  the 
terms  "fraud"  and  "trading  on  another  man's  reputation;"  others 
condescend  to  explain,  to  state  the  case;  and  others  still,  with 
coruscations  of  wit,  point  out  that  one  Roe  is  as  bad  as  the  other, 
and  so  it  doesn't  matter  much.  Now,  all  this  places  the  said 
"Edward  R.  Roe"  in  a  pitiable  plight.  He  is  either  regarded 
as  the  victim,  perhaps  the  accomplice  of  his  publishers,  or  else  is 
identified  with  a  "native  author  called  Roe."  My  publishers, 
Messrs.  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.,  with  their  lawyers,  are  coming  to  his 
aid  in  a  suit  to  enjoin  the  publication  in  its  present  guise  of  the 
book  which  is  perilling  his  reputation,  if  not  mine.  Let  me  sug 
gest  to  the  Western  Roe  that  he  find  publishers  -vho  will  permit 
him  to  shine  undimmed  by  the  shadows  cast  by  my  literary  sins. 

Let  me  close  with  yet  one  more  bit  of  experience.  My  books 
from  the  first  have  been  substantially  in  the  hands  of  one  pub 
lishing  house.  I  believe  that  it  has  been  to  my  advantage;  and  it 


34       "A  NATIVE  AUTHOR  CALLED  ROE" 

would  be  well,  as  a  rule,  for  other  writers  to  begin  with  reputable, 
honorable  publishers  and  to  remain  with  them.  A  publisher  can 
do  more  and  better  with  a  line  of  books  than  with  isolated  vol 
umes.  When  an  author's  books  are  scattered,  there  is  not  suffi 
cient  inducement  for  any  one  to  push  them  strongly,  nor,  as  in 
the  case  above  related,  to  protect  a  writer  against  a  "double," 
should  one  appear.  Authors  often  know  little  about  business, 
and  should  deal  with  a  publisher  who  will  look  after  their  inter 
ests  as  truly  as  his  own.  Unbusinesslike  habits  and  methods  are 
certainly  not  traits  to  be  cultivated,  for  we  often  suffer  griev 
ously  from  their  existence;  yet  as  far  as  possible  the  author 
should  be  free  from  distracting  cares.  The  novelist  does  his  best 
work  when  abstracted  from  the  actual  world  and  living  in  its 
ideal  counterpart  which  for  the  time  he  is  imagining.  When  his 
creative  work  is  completed,  he  should  live  very  close  to  the  real 
world,  or  else  he  will  be  imagining  a  state  of  things  which  neither 
God  nor  man  had  any  hand  in  bringing  about. 


TAKEN     ALIVE 

AND    OTHER    STORIES 


TAKEN    ALIVE 


CHAPTER  I 

SOMETHING   BEFORE    UNKNOWN 

CLARA  HEY  WARD  was  dressed  in  deep  mourning, 
and  it  was  evident  that  the  emblems  of  bereavement 
were  not  worn  merely  in  compliance  with  a  social 
custom.  Her  face  was  pallid  from  grief,  and  her  dark  beau 
tiful  eyes  were  dim  from  much  weeping.  She  sat  in  the  little 
parlor  of  a  cottage  located  in  a  large  Californian  city,  and 
listened  with  apathetic  expression  as  a  young  man  pleaded 
for  the  greatest  and  most  sacred  gift  that  a  woman  can  be 
stow.  Ralph  Brandt  was  a  fine  type  of  young  vigorous 
manhood;  and  we  might  easily  fancy  that  his  strong,  reso 
lute  face,  now  eloquent  with  deep  feeling,  was  not  one  upon 
which  a  girl  could  look  with  indifference.  Clara's  words, 
however,  revealed  the  apparent  hopelessness  of  his  suit. 

"It's  of  no  use,  Ralph,"  she  said;  "I'm  in  no  mood  for 
such  thoughts." 

"You  don't  believe  in  me;  you  don't  trust  me,"  he  re 
sumed  sadly.  "You  think  that  because  I  was  once  wild, 
and  even  worse,  that  I'll  not  be  true  to  my  promises  and 
live  an  honest  life.  Have  I  not  been  honest  when  I  knew 
that  being  so  might  cost  me  dear?  Have  I  not  told  you  of 
my  past  life  and  future  purposes  when  I  might  have  con 
cealed  almost  everything?" 

"It's  not  that,  Ralph.  I  do  believe  you  are  sincere;  and 
if  the  dreadful  thing  which  has  broken  me  down  with  sor 
row  had  not  happened,  all  might  have  been  as  you  wish. 
1  should  have  quite  as  much  confidence  in  a  young  man 

(35) 


36  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

who,  like  you,  has  seen  evil  and  turned  resolutely  away 
from  it,  as  in  one  who  didn't  know  much  about  the  world 
or  himself  either.  What's  more,  father — " 

At  the  word  "father"  her  listless  manner  vanished,  and 
she  gave  way  to  passionate  sobs.  "His  foul  murder  is  al 
ways  before  me, ' '  she  wailed.  ' '  Oh,  we  were  so  happy !  he 
was  so  kind,  and  made  me  his  companion!  I  don't  see  how 
I  can  live  without  him.  I  can't  think  of  love  and  marriage 
when  I  remember  how  he  died,  and  that  the  villain  who 
killed  him  is  at  large  and  unpunished.  What  right  have 
I  to  forget  this  great  wrong  and  to  try  to  be  happy  ?  No, 
no!  the  knife  that  killed  him  pierced  my  heart;  and  it's 
bleeding  all  the  time.  I'm  not  fit  to  be  any  man's  wife; 
and  I  will  not  bring  my  great  sorrow  into  any  man's  home." 

Brandt  sprang  up  and  paced  the  room  for  a  few  moments, 
his  brow  contracted  in  deep  thought.  Then,  apparently  com 
ing  to  a  decision,  he  sat  down  by  his  companion  and  took  her 
cold,  unresisting  hand. 

"My  poor  little  girl,"  he  said,  kindly,  "you  don't  half 
understand  me  yet.  I  love  you  all  the  more  because  you 
are  heart-broken  and  pale  with  grief.  That  is  the  reason  I 
have  spoken  so  earnestly  to-night.  You  will  grieve  your 
self  to  death  if  left  alone;  and  what  good  would  your 
death  do  any  one  ?  It  would  spoil  my  life.  Believe  me,  I 
would  welcome  you  to  my  home  with  all  your  sorrow — all 
the  more  because  of  your  sorrow;  and  I'd  be  so  kind  and 
patient  that  you'd  begin  to  smile  again  some  day.  That's 
what  your  father  would  wish  if  he  could  speak  to  you,  and 
not  that  you  should  grieve  away  your  life  for  what  can't  be 
helped  now.  But  I  have  a  plan.  It's  right  in  my  line  to 
capture  such  scoundrels  as  the  man  who  murdered  your 
father;  and  what's  more,  I  know  the  man,  or  rather  I  used 
to  in  old  times.  I've  played  many  a  game  of  euchre  with 
him  in  which  he  cheated  me  out  of  money  that  I'd  be  glad  to 
have  now;  and  I'm  satisfied  that  he  does  not  know  of  any 
change  in  me.  I  was  away  on  distant  detective  duty,  you 
know,  when  your  father  was  killed.  I  won't  ask  you  to  go 


TAKEN   ALIVE  37 

over  the  painful  circumstances;  I  can  learn  them  at  the 
prison.  I  shall  try  to  get  permission  to  search  out  Bute, 
desperate  and  dangerous  as  he  is — " 

"Oh,  Ralph,  Ralph,"  cried  the  girl,  springing  up,  her 
eyes  flashing  through  her  tears,  "if  you  will  bring  my 
father's  murderer  to  justice,  if  you  will  prevent  him  from 
destroying  other  lives,  as  he  surely  will,  you  will  find  that 
I  can  refuse  you  nothing." 

Then  she  paused,  shook  her  head  sadly,  and  withdrew 
the  hand  she  had  given  him.  "No,"  she  resumed,  "I 
shouldn't  ask  this;  I  don't  ask  it.  As  you  say,  he  is  des 
perate  and  dangerous;  and  he  would  take  your  life  the  mo 
ment  he  dreamed  of  your  purpose.  I  should  only  have  an 
other  cause  for  sorrow." 

Brandt  now  smiled  as  if  he  were  master  of  the  situation. 
"Why,  Clara,"  he  exclaimed,  "don't  you  know  that  run 
ning  down  and  capturing  desperadoes  is  now  part  of  my 
business  ?" 

"Yes;  but  you  can  get  plenty  of  work  that  isn't  so 
dangerous. ' ' 

"I  should  be  a  nice  fellow  to  ask  you  to  be  my  wife  and 
yet  show  I  was  afraid  to  arrest  your  father's  murderer. 
You  needn't  ask  me  to  do  this;  you  are  not  going  to  be 
responsible  for  my  course  in  the  least.  I  shall  begin  opera 
tions  this  very  night,  and  have  no  doubt  that  I  can  get  a 
chance  to  work  on  the  case.  Now  don't  burden  your  heart 
with  any  thoughts  about  my  danger.  I  myself  owe  Bute  as 
big  a  grudge  as  I  can  have  against  any  human  being.  He 
cheated  me  and  led  me  into  deviltry  years  ago,  and  then  I 
lost  sight  of  him  until  he  was  brought  to  the  prison  of  which 
your  father  was  one  of  the  keepers.  I've  been  absent  for 
the  last  three  months,  you  know;  but  I  didn't  forget  you  or 
your  father  a  day,  and  you  remember  I  wrote  you  as  soon 
as  I  heard  of  your  trouble.  I  think  your  father  sort  of  be 
lieved  in  me;  he  never  made  me  feel  I  wasn't  fit  to  see  you 
or  to  be  with  you,  and  I'd  do  more  for  him  living  or  dead 
than  for  any  other  man. ' ' 

386385 


38  TAKEN    ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

"He  did  believe  in  you,  Kalph,  and  he  always  spoke  well 
of  you.  Oh,  you  can't  know  how  much  I  lost  in  him!  Af 
ter  mother  died  he  did  not  leave  me  to  the  care  of  strangers, 
but  gave  me  most  of  his  time  when  off  duty.  He  sent  me  to 
the  best  schools,  bought  me  books  to  read,  and  took  me 
out  evenings  instead  of  going  off  by  himself,  as  so  many 
men  do.  He  was  so  kind  and  so  brave ;  oh,  oh !  you  know 
he  lost  his  life  by  trying  to  do  his  duty  when  another  man 
would  have  given  up.  Bute  and  two  others  broke  jail. 
Father  saw  one  of  his  assistants  stabbed,  and  he  was 
knocked  down  himself.  He  might  have  remained  quiet 
and  escaped  with  a  few  bruises;  but  he  caught  Bute's  foot, 
and  then  the  wretch  turned  and  stabbed  him.  He  told  me 
all  with  his  poor  pale  lips  before  he  died.  Oh,  oh!  when 
shall  I  forget?" 

"You  can  never  forget,  dear;  I  don't  ask  anything  con 
trary  to  nature.  You  were  a  good  daughter,  and  so  I  believe 
you  will  be  a  good  wife.  But  if  I  bring  the  murderer  to 
justice,  you  will  feel  that  a  great  wrong  has  been  righted 
— that  all  has  been  done  that  can  be  done.  Then  you'll 
begin  to  think  that  your  father  wouldn't  wish  you  to  grieve 
yourself  to  death,  and  that  as  he  tried  to  make  you  happy 
while  he  was  living,  so  he  will  wish  you  to  be  happy  now 
he's  gone." 

"It  isn't  a  question  of  happiness.  I  don't  feel  as  if  I 
could  ever  be  happy  again;  and  so  I  don't  see  how  I  can 
make  you  or  any  one  else  happy." 

"That's  my  lookout,  Clara.  I'd  be  only  too  glad  to  take 
you  as  you  are.  Come,  now,  this  is  December.  If  I  bring 
Bute  in  by  Christmas,  what  will  you  give  me?" 

She  silently  and  eloquently  gave  him  her  hand;  but  her 
lips  quivered  so  she  could  not  speak.  He  kissed  her  hand 
as  gallantly  as  any  olden-time  knight,  then  added  a  little 
brusquely: 

"See  here,  little  girl,  I'm  not  going  to  bind  you  by  any 
thing  that  looks  like  a  bargain.  I  shall  attempt  all  I've 
said;  and  then  on  Christmas,  or  whenever  I  get  back, 


TAKEN  ALIVE  39 

I'll  speak  my  heart  to  you  again  just  as  I  have  spoken 
now." 

"When  a  man  acts  as  you  do,  Kalph,  any  girl  would  find 
it  hard  to  keep  free.  I  shall  follow  you  night  and  day  with 
my  thoughts  and  prayers. ' ' 

"Well,  I'm  superstitious  enough  to  believe  that  I  shall 
be  safer  and  more  successful  on  account  of  them.  Clara, 
look  me  in  the  eyes  before  I  go. ' ' 

She  looked  up  to  his  clear  gray  eyes  as  requested. 

"I  don't  ask  you  to  forget  one  who  is  dead;  but  don't 
you  see  how  much  you  are  to  one  who  is  living?  Don't 
you  see  that  in  spite  of  all  your  sorrow  you  can  still  give 
happiness  ?  Now,  be  as  generous  and  kind  as  you  can. 
Don't  grieve  hopelessly  while  I'm  gone.  That's  what  is 
killing  you;  and  the  thought  of  it  fills  me  with  dread. 
Try  to  think  that  you  still  have  something  and  some  one 
to  live  for.  Perhaps  you  can  learn  to  love  me  a  little  if 
you  try,  and  then  everything  won't  look  so  black.  If  you 
find  you  can't  love  me,  1  won't  blame  you-,  and  if  I  lose 
you  as  my  wife,  you  won't  lose  a  true,  honest  friend." 

For  the  first  time  the  girl  became  vaguely  conscious  of 
the  possibility  of  an  affection,  a  tie  superseding  all  others; 
she  began  to  see  how  it  was  possible  to  give  herself  to  this 
man,  not  from  an  .impulse  of  gratitude  or  because  she  liked 
him  better  than  any  one  else,  but  because  of  a  feeling,  new, 
mysterious,  which  gave  him  a  sort  of  divine  right  in  her. 
Something  in  the  expression  of  his  eyes  had  been  more  po 
tent  than  his  words;  something  subtle,  swift  as  an  electric 
spark  had  passed  from  him  to  her,  awakening  a  faint,  strange 
tumult  in  the  heart  she  thought  so  utterly  crushed.  A  few 
moments  before,  she  could  have  promised  resolutely  to  be 
his  wife;  she  could  have  permitted  his  embrace  with  unre 
sponsive  apathy.  Now  she  felt  a  sudden  shyness.  A  faint 
color  stole  into  her  pale  face,  and  she  longed  to  be  alone. 

"Ralph,"  she  faltered,  "you  are  so  generous,  I — I  don't 
know  what  to  say." 

"You  needn't  say  anything  till  I  come  back     If  pos- 


40  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

sible,  I  will  be  here  by  Christmas,  for  you  shouldn't  be 
alone  that  day  with  your  grief.  Grood-by." 

The  hand  she  gave  him  trembled,  and  her  face  wtos 
averted  now. 

"You  will  try  to  love  me  a  little,  won't  you  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  whispered. 


TAKEN  ALIVE  41 


CHAPTER  II 

A   VISITOR   AT   THE   MINE 

RALPH  BRANDT  was  admirably  fitted  for  the  task 
he  had  undertaken.  With  fearlessness  he  united 
imperturbable  coolness  and  unwearied  patience  in 
pursuit  of  an  object.  Few  knew  him  in  his  character  of 
detective,  and  no  one  would  have  singled  him  out  as  an 
expert  in  his  calling.  The  more  difficult  and  dangerous 
the  work,  the  more  careless  and  indifferent  his  manner, 
giving  the  impression  to  superficial  observers  of  being  the 
very  last  person  to  be  intrusted  with  responsible  duty.  Bat 
his  chief  and  others  on  the  force  well  knew  that  beneath 
Brandt's  careless  demeanor  was  concealed  the  relentless  per 
tinacity  of  a  bloodhound  on  track  of  its  victim.  With  the 
trait  of  dogged  pursuit  all  resemblance  to  the  bloodthirsty 
animal  ceased,  and  even  the  worst  of  criminals  found  him 
kind-hearted  and  good-natured  after  they  were  within  his 
power.  Failure  was  an  idea  not  to  be  entertained.  If  the 
man  to  be  caught  existed,  he  could  certainly  be  found,  was 
the  principle  on  which  our  officer  acted. 

He  readily  obtained  permission  to  attempt  the  capture  of 
the  escaped  prisoner,  Bute;  but  the  murderer  had  disap 
peared,  leaving  no  clew.  Brandt  learned  that  the  slums  of 
large  cities  and  several  mining  camps  had  been  searched  in 
vain,  also  that  the  trains  running  east  had  been  carefully 
watched.  We  need  not  try  to  follow  his  processes  of 
thought,  nor  seek  to  learn  how  he  soon  came  to  the  con 
clusion  that  his  man  was  at  some  distant  mining  station 


42  TAKEN   ALIVE:   AND   OTHER   STORIES 

working  under  an  assumed  name.  By  a  kind  of  instinct 
his  mind  kept  reverting  to  one  of  these  stations  with  in 
creasing  frequency.  It  was  not  so  remote  in  respect  to 
mere  distance;  but  it  was  isolated,  off  the  lines  of  travel, 
with  a  gap  of  seventy  miles  between  it  and  what  might  be 
termed  civilization,  and  was  suspected  of  being  a  sort  of 
refuge  for  hard  characters  and  fugitives  from  justice. 
Bute,  when  last  seen,  was  making  for  the  mountains  in 
the  direction  of  this  mine.  Invested  with  ample  authority 
to  bring  in  the  outlaw  dead  or  alive,  Brandt  followed  this 
vague  clew. 

One  afternoon,  Mr.  Alford,  the  superintendent  of  the 
mine,  was  informed  that  a  man  wished  to  see  him.  There 
was  ushered  into  his  private  office  an  elderly  gentleman  who 
appeared  as  if  he  might  be  a  prospecting  capitalist  or  one  of 
the  owners  of  the  mine.  The  superintendent  was  kept  in 
doubt  as  to  the  character  of  the  visitor  for  a  few  moments 
while  Brandt  sought  by  general  remarks  and  leading  ques 
tions  to  learn  the  disposition  of  the  man  who  must,  from  the 
necessities  of  the  case,  become  to  some  extent  his  ally  in  se 
curing  the  ends  of  justice.  Apparently  the  detective  was 
satisfied,  for  he  asked,  suddenly: 

"By  the  way,  have  you  a  man  in  your  employ  by  the 
name  of  Bute?" 

"No,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Alford,  with  a  little  surprise. 

"Have  you  a  man,  then,  who  answers  to  the  following 
description?"  He  gave  a  brief  word  photograph  of  the 
criminal. 

"You  want  this  man  ?"  Mr.  Alford  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"Yes." 

"Well,  really,  sir,  I  would  like  to  know  your  motive, 
indeed,  I  may  add,  your  authority,  for — " 

"There  it  is,"  Brand  smilingly  remarked,  handing  the 
superintendent  a  paper. 

"Oh,  certainly,  certainly,"  said  Mr.  Alford,  after  a  mo 
ment.  "This  is  all  right;  and  1  am  bound  to  do  nothing  to 
obstruct  you  in  the  performance  of  your  duty. ' '  He  now 


TAKEN  ALIVE  43 

carefully  closed  the  door  and  added,  "What  do  you  want 
this  man  for?" 

"It's  a  case  of  murder." 

"Phew!  Apparently  he  is  one  of  the  best  men  on  the 
force. ' ' 

"Only  apparently;  I  know  him  well." 

Mr.  Alford' s  brow  clouded  with  anxiety,  and  after  a 
moment  he  said,  "Mr. — how  shall  I  address  you?" 

"You  had  better  continue  to  call  me  by  the  name  under 
which  I  was  introduced — Brown." 

"Well,  Mr.  Brown,  you  have  a  very  difficult  and  hazard 
ous  task,  and  you  must  be  careful  how  you  involve  me  in 
your  actions.  I  shall  not  lay  a  straw  in  your  way,  but  I 
cannot  openly  help  you.  It  is  difficult  for  me  to  get  labor 
here  at  best;  and  it  is  understood  that  I  ask  no  questions 
and  deal  with  men  on  the  basis  simply  of  their  relations  to 
me.  As  long  as  I  act  on  this  understanding,  I  can  keep 
public  sentiment  with  me  and  enforce  some  degree  of  dis 
cipline.  If  it  were  known  that  I  was  aiding  or  abetting  you 
in  the  enterprise  you  have  in  hand,  my  life  would  not  be 
worth  a  rush.  There  are  plenty  in  camp  who  would  shoot 
me,  just  as  they  would  you,  should  they  learn  of  your  de 
sign.  I  fear  you  do  not  realize  what  you  are  attempting. 
A  man  like  yourself,  elderly  and  alone,  has  no  better 
chance  of  taking  such  a  fellow  as  you  describe  Bute  to  be 
than  of  carrying  a  ton  of  ore  on  his  back  dawn  the  moun 
tain.  In  all  sincerity,  sir,  I  must  advise  you  to  depart 
quietly  and  expeditiously,  and  give  no  one  besides  myself 
a  hint  of  your  errand. ' ' 

"Will  you  please  step  into  the  outer  office  and  make  sure 
that  no  one  is  within  earshot?"  said  Brandt,  quietly. 

When  Mr.  Alford  returned,  the  elderly  man  apparently 
had  disappeared,  and  a  smiling  smooth-faced  young  fellow 
with  short  brown  hair  sat  in  his  place.  His  host  stared, 
the  transformation  was  so  great. 

"Mr.  Alford,"  said  the  detective,  "I  understand  my 
business  and  the  risks  it  involves.  All  I  ask  of  you  is  that 


44  TAKEN   ALIVE:   AND   OTHER   STORIES 

I  may  not  be -interfered  with  so  far  as  you  are  concerned; 
and  my  chief  object  in  calling  is  to  prevent  you  being  sur 
prised  by  anything  you  may  see  or  hear.  About  three  miles 
or  thereabouts  from  here,  on  the  road  running  east,  there  is 
a  fellow  who  keeps  a  tavern.  Do  you  know  him  ?' ' 

"1  know  no  good  of  him.  He's  the  worst  nuisance  I  have 
to  contend  with,  for  he  keeps  some  of  my  men  disabled  much 
of  the  time." 

"Well,  I  knew  Bute  years  ago,  and  I  can  make  him  think 
I  am  now  what  I  was  then,  only  worse;  and  I  will  induce 
him  to  go  with  me  to  raid  that  tavern.  If  this  plan  fails,  I 
shall  try  another,  for  I  am  either  going  to  take  Bute  alive 
or  else  get  ample  proof  that  he  is  dead.  There  may  be  some 
queer  goings-on  before  I  leave,  and  all  I  ask  is  that  you  will 
neither  interfere  nor  investigate.  You  may  be  as  ignorant 
and  non-committal  as  you  please.  I  shall  report  progress 
to  you,  however,  and  may  need  your  testimony,  but  will 
see  to  it  that  it  is  given  by  you  as  one  who  had  nothing  to 
do  with  the  affair.  Now  please  show  me  your  quarters,  so 
that  I  can  find  you  at  night  if  need  be;  also  Bute's  sleeping- 
place  and  the  lay  of  the  land  to  some  extent.  You'll  find 
that  I  can  take  everything  in  mighty  quick.  See,  I'm  the 
elderly  gentleman  again,"  and  he  resumed  his  disguise  with 
marvellous  celerity. 

Mr.  Alford  led  the  way  through  the  outer  office;  and 
the  two  clerks  writing  there  saw  nothing  to  awaken  the 
slightest  suspicion.  The  superintendent's  cottage  stood  on 
the  road  leading  to  the  mine  and  somewhat  apart  from  the 
other  buildings.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  highway  was 
a  thicket  of  pines  which  promised  cover  until  one  plunged 
into  the  unbroken  forest  that  covered  the  mountain-side. 

Brandt  observed  this,  and  remarked,  "I've  studied  the 
approaches  to  your  place  a  little  as  I  came  along;  but  I  sup 
pose  I  shall  have  to  give  a  day  or  two  more  to  the  work 
before  making  my  attempt. ' ' 

"Well,"  rejoined  Mr.  Alford,  who  was  of  rather  a  social 
turn  and  felt  the  isolation  of  his  life,  "why  not  be  my  guest 


TAKEN   ALIVE  45 

for  a  time  ?  I'll  take  the  risk  if  you  will  remain  incog,  and 
keep  aloof  from  the  men." 

"That  I  should  do  in  any  event  till  ready  to  act.  Thank 
you  for  your  kindness,  for  it  may  simplify  my  task  very 
much.  I  will  see  to  it  that  I  do  not  compromise  you. 
When  I'm  ready  to  snare  my  bird,  you  can  dismiss  me  a 
little  ostentatiously  for  New  York." 

Brandt's  horse  was  now  ordered  to  the  stable.  The  two 
men  entered  the  cottage,  and  soon  afterward  visited  the 
different  points  of  interest,  Mr.  Alford  giving  the  natural 
impression  that  he  was  showing  an  interested  stranger  the 
appliances  for  working  the  mine.  At  one  point  he  remarked 
in  a  low  tone,  "That's  Bute's  lodging-place.  A  half-breed, 
named  Apache  Jack,  who  speaks  little  English  lives  with 
him." 

Brandt's  seemingly  careless  and  transitory  glance  rested 
on  a  little  shanty  and  noted  that  it  was  separated  from  others 
of  its  class  by  a  considerable  interval. 

"Bute,  you  say,  is  on  the  day-shift." 

"Yes,  he  won't  be  up  till  six  o'clock." 

"I'll  manage  to  see  him  then  without  his  knowing  it." 

' '  Be  careful.  I  take  my  risk  on  the  ground  of  your  good 
f&ith  and  prudence." 

"Don't  fear." 


TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 


CHAPTER  III 

THWARTED 

BKANDT  maintained  his  disguise  admirably.  His 
presence  caused  little  comment,  and  he  was  spoken 
of  as  a  visiting  stockholder  of  the  mine.  During 
his  walk  with  Mr.  Alford  he  appeared  interested  only  in 
machinery,  ores,  etc.,  but  his  trained  eyes  made  a  topo 
graphical  map  of  surroundings,  and  everything  centred 
about  Bute's  shanty.  In  the  evening,  he  amply  returned 
his  host's  hospitality  by  comic  and  tragic  stories  of  criminal 
life.  The  next  day  he  began  to  lay  his  plans  carefully,  and 
disappeared  soon  after  breakfast  with  the  ostensible  purpose 
of  climbing  a  height  at  some  distance  for  the  sake  of  the 
prospect.  He  soon  doubled  round,  noting  every  covert  ap 
proach  to  Bute's  lodgings.  His  eye  and  ear  were  as  quick 
as  an  Indian's;  but  he  still  maintained,  in  case  he  was  ob 
served,  the  manner  of  an  elderly  stranger  strolling  about  to 
view  the  region. 

By  noon  he  felt  that  he  had  the  immediate  locality  by 
heart.  His  afternoon  task  was  to  explore  the  possibilities 
of  a  stream  that  crossed  the  mine  road  something  over  a 
mile  away,  and  for  this  purpose  he  mounted  his  horse.  He 
soon  reached  the  shallow  ford,  and  saw  that  the  water  was 
backed  up  for  a  considerable  distance,  and  that  the  shallows 
certainly  extended  around  a  high,  jutting  rock  which  hid 
the  stream  from  that  point  and  beyond  from  the  road.  The 
bed  appeared  smooth,  firm,  and  sandy,  and  he  waded  his 
horse  up  the  gentle  current  until  he  was  concealed  from 
the  highway.  A  place,  however,  was  soon  reached  where 
the  water  came  tumbling  down  over  impassable  rocks;  and 


TAKEN   ALIVE  47 

he  was  compelled  to  ascend  the  wooded  shore.  This  he  did 
on  the  side  nearest  to  the  mine  house,  and  found  that  with 
care  he  could  lead  his  horse  to  a  point  that  could  not  be,  he 
thought,  over  half  a  mile  from  the  superintendent's  cottage. 
Here  there  was  a  little  dell  around  which  the  pines  grew  so 
darkly  and  thickly  that  he  determined  to  make  it  his  covert 
should  he  fail  in  his  first  attempt.  His  object  now  was  to 
see  if  his  estimate  of  proximity  to  the  mine  was  correct; 
and  leaving  his 'horse,  he  pushed  up  the  mountain-side.  At 
last  he  reached  a  precipitous  ledge.  Skirting  this  a  short 
distance,  he  found  a  place  of  comparatively  easy  ascent,  and 
soon  learned  with  much  satisfaction  that  he  was  not  over 
two  hundred  yards  from  the  thicket  opposite  Mr.  Alford's 
quarters.  These  discoveries  all  favored  possible  future 
operations;  and  he  retraced  his  steps,  marking  his  return 
ing  path  by  bits  of  white  paper,  held  in  place  by  stones 
against  the  high  prevailing  winds.  Near  the  spot  where 
he  had  left  his  horse  he  found  a  nook  among  the  rocks  in 
which  a  fire  would  be  well  hidden.  Having  marked  the 
place  carefully  with  his  eye  and  obtained  his  bearings,  he 
led  his  horse  back  to  the  stream  and  reached  the  unfre 
quented  road  again  without  being  observed. 

His  next  task  was  to  discover  some  kind  of  a  passageway 
from  the  mine  road  to  a  point  on  the  main  highway,  leading 
to  the  west  and  out  of  the  mountains.  He  found  no  better 
resource  than  to  strike  directly  into  the  forest  and  travel  by 
points  of  the  compass.  Fortunately,  the  trees  were  lofty  and 
comparatively  open,  and  he  encountered  no  worse  diffi 
culties  than  some  steep  and  rugged  descents,  and  at  last 
emerged  on  the  post  road  at  least  a  mile  to  the  west  of  the 
tavern,  which  stood  near  its  intersection  with  the  mine  road. 
Keturning,  he  again  marked  out  a  path  with  paper  as  he 
had  before.  The  sun  was  now  low  in  the  sky;  and  as 
he  trotted  toward  the  mine,  he  had  but  one  more  precau 
tion  to  take,  and  that  was  to  find  a  place  where  the  trees 
were  sufficiently  open  to  permit  him  to  ride  into  their  shade 
at  night  in  case  he  wished  to  avoid  parties  upon  the  road. 


48  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

Having  indicated  two  or  three  such  spots  by  a  single  bit  of 
paper  that  would  glimmer  in  the  moonlight,  he  joined  Mr. 
Alford  at  supper,  feeling  that  his  preparations  were  nearly 
complete.  When  they  were  alone,  he  told  his  host  that  it 
would  be  best  not  to  gratify  his  curiosity,  for  then  he  could 
honestly  say  that  he  knew  nothing  of  any  detective's  plans 
or  whereabouts. 

"I  cannot  help  feeling,"  said  Mr.  Alford,  "that  you  are 
playing  with  fire  over  a  powder  magazine.  Now  that  I  know 
you  better,  I  hate  to  think  of  the  risk  that  you  are  taking. 
It  has  troubled  me  terribly  all  day.  I  feel  as  if  we  were  on 
the  eve  of  a  tragedy.  You  had  better  leave  quietly  in  the 
morning  and  bring  a  force  later  that  would  make  resistance 
impossible,  or  else  give  it  up  altogether.  Why  should  you 
throw  away  your  life  ?  I  tell  you  again  that  if  the  men  get 
a  hint  of  your  character  or  purpose  they  will  hunt  you  to 
death." 

"It's  a  part  of  my  business  to  incur  such  risks,"  replied 
Brandt,  quietly.  "Besides,  I  have  a  motive  in  this  case 
which  would  lead  me  to  take  a  man  out  of  the  jaws  of  hell." 

"That's  what  you  may  find  you  are  attempting  here. 
Well,  we're  in  for  it  now,  I  suppose,  since  you  are  so 
determined." 

"I  don't  think  you  will  appear  involved  in  the  affair  at 
all.  In  the  morning  you  give  me  a  sack  of  grain  for  my 
horse  and  some  provisions  for  myself,  and  then  bid  farewell 
to  Mr.  Brown  in  the  most  open  and  natural  manner  possi 
ble.  You  may  not  see  me  again.  It  is  possible  I  may  have 
to  borrow  a  horse  of  you  if  my  scheme  to-night  don't  work. 
It  will  be  returned  or  paid  for  very  soon." 

"Bute  has  a  pony.  He  brought  it  with  him,  and  he  and 
Apache  Jack  between  them  manage  to  keep  it.  They  stable 
it  nights  in  a  little  shed  back  of  their  shanty." 

"I  had  discovered  this,  and  hope  to  take  the  man  away 
on  his  pony.  I  understand  why  Bute  keeps  the  animal. 
He  knew  that  he  might  have  to  travel  suddenly  and  fast" 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Alford  parted  with  Brandt  as 


TAKEN  ALIVE  49 

had  been  arranged,  the  latter  starting  ostensibly  for  the 
nearest  railway  station.  All  day  long  the  superintendent 
was  nervous  and  anxious ;  but  he  saw  no  evidences  of  sus 
picion  or  uneasiness  among  those  in  his  employ. 

Brandt  rode  at  a  sharp  canter  as  long  as  he  was  in  sight, 
and  then  approached  the  stream  slowly  and  warily.  When 
satisfied  that  he  was  unobserved,  he  again  passed  up  its 
shallow  bed  around  the  concealing  rock,  and  sought  his 
hiding-place  on  the  mountain- side.  Aware  that  the  coming 
nights  might  require  ceaseless  activity,  his  first  measure 
was  to  secure  a  few  hours  of  sound  sleep;  and  he  had  so 
trained  himself  that  he  could,  as  it  were,  store  up  rest 
against  long  and  trying  emergencies.  The  rocks  sheltered 
him  against  the  wind,  and  a  fire  gave  all  the  comfort  his 
hardy  frame  required,  as  he  reposed  on  his  couch  of  pine- 
needles.  Early  in  the  afternoon  he  fed  his  horse,  took  a 
hearty  meal  himself,  and  concealed  the  remaining  store  so 
that  no  wild  creatures  could  get  at  it.  At  early  twilight  he 
returned  by  way  of  the  stream  and  hid  his  horse  well  back 
in  the  woods  near  the  mine.  To  this  he  now  went  boldly, 
and  inquired  for  Tim  Atkins,  Bute's  assumed  name.  He 
was  directed  to  the  shanty  with  which  he  had  already  made 
himself  so  familiar. 

Bute  was  found  alone,  and  was  much  surprised  at  sight 
of  his  old  gambling  acquaintance  of  better  days,  for  his  bet 
ter  days  were  those  of  robbery  before  he  had  added  the 
deeper  stain  of  murder.  Brandt  soon  allayed  active  fears 
and  suspicions  by  giving  the  impression  that  in  his  descensus 
he  had  reached  the  stage  of  robbery  and  had  got  on  the 
scent  of  some  rich  booty  in  the  mountains. 

"But  how  did  you  know  I  was  here?"  demanded  Bute. 

"1  didn't  know  it,"  replied  Brandt,  adopting  his  old 
vernacular;  "but  I  guessed  as  much,  for  I  knew  there  was 
more'n  one  shady  feller  in  this  gang,  and  I  took  my  chances 
on  findin'  you,  for,  says  I  to  myself,  if  I  can  find  Bute,  I've 
found  the  right  man  to  help  me  crack  a  ranch  when  there's 
some  risk  and  big  plunder. ' ' 

3— ROE— XI 


50  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

He  then  disclosed  the  fact  of  hearing  that  the  keeper  of 
the  tavern  had  accumulated  a  good  sum  of  hard  money,  and 
was  looking  out  for  a  chance  to  send  it  to  a  bank.  "We  can 
save  him  the  trouble,  yer  know,"  he  concluded,  facetiously. 

"Well,"  said  Bute,  musingly,  "I'm  gittin'  tired  of  this 
dog's  life,  and  I  reckon  I'll  go  snacks  with  yer  and  then  put 
out  fer  parts  unknown.  I  was  paid  t'other  day,  and  there 
ain't  much  owin'  me  here.  I  guess  it'll  be  safer  fer  me  ter 
keep  movin'  on,  too." 

"You  may  well  say  that,  Bute.  I  heard  below  that  there 
was  goin'  to  be  some  investigations  inter  this  gang,  and  that 
there  was  more'n  one  feller  here  whose  pictur  was  on  exhi 
bition.  ' ' 

"That  so?"  said  Bute,  hastily.  "Well,  I'll  go  with  yer 
ter-night,  fer  it's  time  I  was  movin'.  I  kin  tell  yer  one 
thing,  though — there'll  be  no  investigations  here  unless  a 
fair-sized  regiment  makes  it.  Every  man  keeps  his  shooter 
handy." 

"Hanged  if  we  care  how  the  thing  turns  out.  You  and 
me' 11  be  far  enough  away  from  the  shindy.  Now  make 
your  arrangements  prompt,  for  we  must  be  on  the  road  by 
nine  o'clock,  so  we  can  get  through  early  in  the  night  and 
have  a  good  start  with  the  swag.  My  plan  is  to  ambush  the 
whiskey  shop,  go  and  demand  drinks  soon  after  everybody 
is  gone,  and  then  proceed  to  business." 

"Can't  we  let  my  mate,  Apache  Jack,  in  with  us?  I'll 
stand  for  him." 

"No,  no,  I  don't  know  anything  about  Apache  Jack; 
and  I  can  trust  you.  We  can  manage  better  alone,  and  I'd 
rather  have  one- half  than  one-third." 

"Trust  me,  kin  you?  you — fool,"  thought  Bute.  "So 
ye  thinks  I'll  sit  down  and  divide  the  plunder  socially  with 
you  when  I  kin  give  yer  a  quiet  dig  in  the  ribs  and  take  it 
all.  One  more  man  now  won't  matter.  I'm  a-goin'  ter  try 
fer  enough  ter-night  ter  take  me  well  out  of  these  parts." 

Bute's  face  was  sinister  enough  to  suggest  any  phase  of 
evil,  and  Brandt  well  knew  that  he  was  capable  of  what  he 


TAKEN  ALIVE  51 

meditated.  It  was  now  the  policy  of  both  parties,  however, 
to  be  very  friendly,  and  Bute  was  still  further  mellowed  by 
a  draught  of  liquor  from  Brandt's  flask. 

They  had  several  games  of  cards  in  which  it  was  managed 
that  Bute's  winnings  should  be  the  larger;  and  at  nine  in 
the  evening  they  started  on  what  was  to  Bute  another  expe 
dition  of  robbery  and  murder.  Mr.  Alford,  who  was  on 
the  alert,  saw  them  depart  with  a  deep  sigh  of  relief.  The 
night  was  cloudy,  but  the  moon  gave  plenty  of  light  for 
travelling.  Brandt  soon  secured  his  horse,  and  then  ap 
peared  to  give  full  rein  to  his  careless,  reckless  spirit. 

As  they  approached  the  stream,  he  remarked,  "I  say, 
Bute,  it's  too  bad  we  can't  use  the  pasteboards  while  on 
the  jog;  but  I  can  win  a  five  out  of  you  by  an  old  game 
of  ours.  I  bet  you  1  can  empty  my  revolver  quicker  'n 
you  can." 

"We'd  better  save  our  amernition  and  make  no  noise." 

"Oh,  pshaw!  I  always  have  better  luck  when  I'm  free 
and  careless  like.  It's  your  sneaking  fellers  that  always  get 
caught.  Besides,  who'll  notice?  This  little  game  is  com 
mon  enough  all  through  the  mountains,  and  everybody 
knows  that  there's  no  mischief  in  such  kind  of  firing. 
I  want  to  win  back  some  of  my  money." 

"Well,  then,  take  you  up;  go  ahead." 

Instantly  from  Brandt's  pistol  there  were  six  reports  fol 
lowing  one  another  so  quickly  that  they  could  scarcely  be 
distinguished. 

"Now  beat  that  if  you  can!"  cried  Brandt,  who  had  a 
second  and  concealed  revolver  ready  for  an  emergency. 

"The  fool!"  thought  Bute,  "to  put  himself  at  the  marcy 
of  any  man.  I  can  pluck  him  to-night  like  a  winged 
pa'tridge;"  but  he  too  fired  almost  as  quickly  as  his 
companion. 

"You  only  used  five  ca'tridges  in  that  little  game,  my 
friend,"  said  Brandt. 

"Nonsense!     I  fired  so  quick  you  couldn't  count  'em." 

44 Now  see  here,  Bute,"  resumed  Brandt,  in  an  aggrieved 


52  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

tone,  "you've  got  to  play  fair  with  me.  I've  cut  my  eye- 
teeth  since  you  used  to  fleece  me,  and  I'll  swear  you  fired 
only  five  shots.  Let's  load  and  try  again." 

"What  the  use  of  sich nonsense ?  You'll  swar  that 

you  fired  the  quickest;  and  of  course  I'll  swar  the  same, 
and  there's  nobody  here  ter  jedge.  What's  more,  .Ralph 
Brandt,  I  wants  you  and  every  man  ter  know  that  I  always 
keeps  a  shot  in  reserve,  and  that  I  never  misses.  So  let's 
load  and  jog  on,  and  stop  foolin'." 

"That  scheme  has  failed,"  thought  Brandt,  as  he  re 
placed  the  shells  with  cartridges. 

His  purpose  was  to  find  a  moment  when  his  companion 
was  completely  in  his  power,  and  it  came  sooner  than  he 
expected.  When  they  drew  near  the  brook,  it  was  evident 
that  Bute's  pony  was  thirsty,  for  it  suddenly  darted  forward 
and  thrust  its  nose  into  the  water.  Therefore,  for  an  in 
stant,  Bute  was  in  advance  with  his  back  toward  the  de 
tective.  Covering  the  fellow  with  his  revolver,  Brandt 
shouted: 

"Bute,  throw  up  your  hands;  surrender,  or  you  are  a 
dead  man!" 

Instantly  the  truth  flashed  through  the  outlaw's  mind. 
Instead  of  complying,  he  threw  himself  forward  over  the 
pony's  neck  and  urged  the  animal  forward.  Brandt  fired, 
and  Bute  fell  with  a  splash  into  the  water.  At  that  mo 
ment  three  miners,  returning  from  the  tavern,  came  shout 
ing  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  stream.  The  frightened 
pony,  relieved  of  its  burden,  galloped  homeward.  Brandt 
also  withdrew  rapidly  toward  the  mine  for  some  distance, 
and  then  rode  into  the  woods.  Having  tied  his  horse  well 
back  from  the  highway,  he  reconnoitred  the  party  that  had 
so  inopportunely  interfered  with  his  plans.  He  discovered 
that  they  were  carrying  Bute,  who,  from  his  groans  and 
oaths,  was  evidently  not  dead,  though  he  might  be  mortally 
wounded.  His  rescuers  were  breathing  out  curses  and  threats 
of  vengeance  against  Brandt,  now  known  to  be  an  officer  of 
the  law. 


TAKEN   ALIVE  53 

"The  job  has  become  a  little  complicated  now, "  muttered 
Brandt,  after  they  had  passed;  "and  I  must  throw  them  off 
the  scent.  There  will  be  a  dozen  out  after  me  soon." 

He  remounted  his  horse,  stole  silently  down  the  road, 
crossed  the  stream,  and  then  galloped  to  the  tavern,  and 
calling  out  the  keeper,  asked  if  there  was  any  shorter  road 
out  of  the  mountains  than  the  one  leading  to  the  west. 
Being  answered  in  the  negative,  he  rode  hastily  away. 
On  reaching  the  place  where  he  had  struck  this  road  the 
previous  day,  he  entered  the  woods,  followed  the  rugged 
trail  that  he  had  marked  by  bits  of  paper,  and  slowly  ap 
proached  the  mine  road  again  near  the  point  where  the 
stream  crossed  it.  He  then  reconnoitred  and  learned  that 
there  was  evidently  a  large  party  exploring  the  woods 
between  the  stream  and  the  mine. 

At  last  they  all  gathered  at  the  ford  for  consultation, 
and  Brandt  heard  one  say: 

"We're  wastin'  time  beatin'  round  here.  He'd  naterly 
put  fer  the  lowlands  as  soon  as  he  found  he  was  balked  in 
takin'  his  man.  I  move  we  call  on  Whiskey  Bob,  and  see 
if  a  man's  rode  that  way  ter- night. " 

A  call  on  Whiskey  Bob  was  apparently  always  accepta 
ble;  and  the  party  soon  disappeared  down  the  road — some 
on  horses  and  more  on  foot.  Brandt  then  quietly  crossed 
the  road  and  gained  his  retreat  on  the  mountain- side. 

"I  must  camp  here  now  till  the  fellow  dies,  and  I  can 
prove  it,  or  until  I  can  get  another  chance,"  was  his  conclu 
sion  as  he  rubbed  down  and  fed  his  horse. 


54  TAKEN    ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 


CHAPTER   IV 

TAKEN   ALIVE 

AFTER,  taking  some  refreshment  himself,  Brandt  de 
cided  to  go  to  the  thicket  opposite  the  superintend 
ent's  house  for  a  little  observation.  He  soon  reached 
this  outlook,  and  saw  that  something  unusual  was  occurring 
in  the  cottage.  At  last  the  door  opened,  and  Bute  was  as 
sisted  to  his  shanty  by  two  men.  They  had  scarcely  disap 
peared  before  Brandt  darted  across  the  road  and  knocked 
for  admittance. 

"Great  Scott!  you  here?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Alford. 

"Yes,  and  here  I'm  going  to  stay  till  I  take  my  man," 
replied  the  detective,  with  a  laugh.  "Don't  be  alarmed.  I 
shall  not  remain  in  your  house,  but  in  the  neighborhood." 

"You  are  trifling  with  your  life,  and,  I  may  add,  with 
mine." 

"Not  at  all.  Come  up  to  your  bedroom.  First  draw  the 
curtains  close,  and  we'll  compare  notes.  I  won't  stay  but  a 
few  moments. " 

Mr.  Alford  felt  that  it  was  best  to  comply,  for  some  one 
might  come  and  find  them  talking  in  the  hall.  When 
Brandt  entered  the  apartment,  he  threw  himself  into  a 
chair  and  laughed  in  his  low  careless  style  as  he  said, 
"Well,  I  almost  bagged  my  game  to-night,  and  would 
have  done  so  had  not  three  of  your  men,  returning  from 
the  tavern,  interfered.1' 

"There's  a  party  out  looking  for  you  now." 

"I  know  it;  but  I've  put  them  on  the  wrong  trail.  What 
I  want  to  learn  is,  will  Bute  live?" 

"Yes;  your  shot  made  a  long  flesh-wound  just  above  his 


TAKEN   ALIVE  55 

shoulders.  A  little  closer,  and  it  would  have  cut  his  verte 
brae  and  finished  him.  He  has  lost  a  good  deal  of  blood, 
and  could  not  be  moved  for  some  days  except  at  some 
risk." 

"You  are  sure  of  that  ?' ' 

"Yes." 

"Well,  he  may  have  to  incur  the  risk.  I  only  wish  to 
be  certain  that  he  will  not  take  it  on  his  own  act  at  once. 
You'll  soon  miss  him  in  any  event." 

"The  sooner  the  better.  I  wish  your  aim  had  been 
surer. ' ' 

"That  wasn't  my  good  luck.  Next  time  I'll  have  to 
shoot  closer  or  else  take  him  alive." 

"But  you  can't  stay  in  this  region.  They  will  all  be  on 
the  alert  now. ' ' 

"Oh,  no.  The  impression  will  be  general  to-morrow  that 
I've  made  for  the  lowlands  as  fast  as  my  horse  could  carry 
me.  Don't  you  worry.  Till  I  move  again,  I'm  safe  enough. 
All  I  ask  of  you  now  is  to  keep  Bute  in  his  own  shanty,  and 
not  to  let  him  have  more  than  one  man  to  take  care  of  him 
if  possible.  Good-night.  You  may  not  see  me  again,  and 
then  again  you  may." 

"Well,  now  that  you  are  here,"  said  the  superintendent, 
who  was  naturally  brave  enough,  "spend  an  hour  or  two,  or 
else  stay  till  just  before  daylight.  I  confess  I  am  becoming 
intensely  interested  in  your  adventure,  and  would  take  a 
hand  in  it  if  I  could;  but  you  know  well  enough  that  if  1 
did,  and  it  became  known,  I  would  have  to  find  business 
elsewhere  very  suddenly — that  is,  if  given  the  chance." 

"I  only  wish  your  passive  co-operation.  I  should  be 
glad,  however,  if  you  would  let  me  take  a  horse,  if  I  must. " 

"Certainly,  as  long  as  you  leave  my  black  mare." 

Brandt  related  what  had  occurred,  giving  a  comical  as 
pect  to  everything,  and  then,  after  reconnoitring  the  road 
from  a  darkened  window,  regained  his  cover  in  safety.  He 
declined  to  speak  of  his  future  plans  or  to  give  any  clew  to 
his  hiding-place,  to  which  he  now  returned. 


56  TAKEN   ALIVE;    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

During  the  few  remaining  hours  of  darkness  and  most 
of  the  next  day,  he  slept  and  lounged  about  his  fire.  The 
next  night  was  too  bright  and  clear  for  anything  beyond  a 
reconnoissance,  and  he  saw  evidences  of  an  alertness  which 
made  him  very  cautious.  He  did  not  seek  another  inter 
view  with  Mr.  Alford,  for  now  nothing  was  to  be  gained 
by  it. 

The  next  day  proved  cloudy,  and  with  night  began  a 
violent  storm  of  wind  and  rain.  Brandt  cowered  over  his 
fire  till  nine  o'clock,  and  then  taking  a  slight  draught  from 
his  flask,  chuckled,  "This  is  glorious  weather  for  my  work. 
Here's  to  Clara's  luck  this  time!" 

In  little  over  an  hour  he  started  for  the  mine,  near  which 
he  concealed  his  horse.  Stealing  about  in  the  deep  shadows, 
he  soon  satisfied  himself  that  no  one  was  on  the  watch,  and 
then  approaching  the  rear  of  Bute's  shanty,  found  to  his  joy 
that  the  pony  was  in  the  shed.  A  chink  in  the  board  siding 
enabled  him  to  look  into  the  room  which  contained  his  prey; 
he  started  as  he  saw  Apache  Jack,  instantly  recognizing  in 
him  another  criminal  for  whom  a  large  reward  was  offered. 

"Better  luck  than  I  dreamed  of,"  he  thought.  "I  shall 
take  them  both;  but  I  now  shall  have  to  borrow  a  horse  of 
Alford;"  and  he  glided  away,  secured  an  animal  from  the 
stable,  and  tied  it  near  his  own.  In  a  short  time  he  was 
back  at  his  post  of  observation.  It  had  now  become  evi 
dent  that  no  one  even  imagined  that  there  was  danger  while 
such  a  storm  was  raging.  The  howling  wind  would  drown 
all  ordinary  noises;  and  Brandt  determined  that  the  two 
men  in  the  shanty  should  be  on  their  way  to  jail  that  night. 
When  he  again  put  his  eye  to  the  chink  in  the  wall,  Bute 
was  saying: 

"Well,  no  one  will  start  fer  the  mountings  while  this 
storm  lasts,  but,  wound  or  no  wound,  I  must  get  out  of 
this  as  soon  as  it's  over.  There's  no  safety  fer  me  here 
now." 

"Ef  they  comes  fer  you,  like  enough  they'll  take  me," 
replied  Apache  Jack,  who,  now  that  he  was  alone  with  his 


TAKEN   ALIVE  57 

confederate,  could  speak  his  style  of  English  fast  enough. 
His  character  of  half-breed  was  a  disguise  which  his  dark 
complexion  had  suggested.  "Ter-morrer  night,  ef  it's  clar, 
we'll  put  out  fer  the  easterd.  I  know  of  a  shanty  in  the 
woods  not  so  very  fur  from  here  in  which  we  kin  put  up 
till  yer's  able  ter  travel  furder.  Come,  now,  take  a  swig  of 
whiskey  with  me  and  then  we'll  sleep;  there's  no  need  of 
our  watchin'  any  longer  on  a  night  like  this.  I'll  jest  step 
out  an'  see  ef  the  pony's  safe;  sich  a  storm's  'nuff  ter  scare 
him  off  ter  the  woods. ' ' 

"Well,  jest  lay  my  shooter  on  the  cha'r  here  aside  me 
'fore  you  go.  I  feel  safer  with  the  little  bull -dog  in  reach." 

This  the  man  did,  then  putting  his  own  revolver  on  the 
table,  that  it  might  not  get  wet,  began  to  unbar  the  door. 
Swift  as  a  shadow  Brandt  glided  out  of  the  shed  and  around 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  shanty. 

An  instant  later  Bute  was  paralyzed  by  seeing  his  enemy 
enter  the  open  door.  Before  the  outlaw  could  realize  that 
Brandt  was  not  a  feverish  vision  induced  by  his  wound,  the 
detective  had  captured  both  revolvers,  and  was  standing  be 
hind  the  door  awaiting  Apache  Jack's  return. 

"Hist!"  whispered  Brandt,  "not  a  sound,  or  you  will 
both  be  dead  in  two  minutes." 

Bute's  nerves  were  so  shattered  that  he  could  scarcely 
have  spoken,  even  if  he  had  been  reckless  enough  to  do  so. 
He  felt  himself  doomed;  and  when  brutal  natures  like  his 
succumb,  they  usually  break  utterly.  Therefore,  he  could 
do  no  more  than  shiver  with  unspeakable  dread  as  if  he  had 
an  ague. 

Soon  Apache  Jack  came  rushing  in  out  of  the  storm,  to 
be  instantly  confronted  by  Brandt's  revolver.  The  fellow 
glanced  at  the  table,  and  seeing  his  own  weapon  was  gone, 
instinctively  half  drew  a  long  knife. 

"Put  that  knife  on  the  table  I"  ordered  Brandt,  sternly. 
"Do  you  think  I'd  allow  any  such  foolishness  ?" 

The  man  now  realized  his  powerlessness,  and  obeyed; 
and  Brandt  secured  this  weapon  also. 


58  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

"See  here,  Apache  Jack,  or  whatever  your  name  is, 
don't  you  run  your  head  into  a  noose.  You  know  I'm 
empowered  to  arrest  Bute,  and  you  don't  know  anything 
about  the  force  I  have  at  hand.  All  you've  got  to  do  is  to 
obey  me,  an  officer  of  the  law,  like  a  good  citizen.  If  you 
don't,  I'll  shoot  you;  and  that's  all  there  is  about  it.  Will 
you  obey  orders  ?' ' 

"I  no  understan'." 

"Stop  lying!  You  understand  English  as  well  as  I  do, 
and  I'll  suspect  you  if  you  try  that  on  again.  Come,  now! 
I've  no  time  to  lose.  It's  death  or  obedience!" 

"You  can't  blame  a  feller  fer  standin'  by  his  mate,"  was 
the  sullen  yet  deprecatory  reply. 

"I  can  blame  any  man,  and  arrest  or  shoot  him  too,  who 
obstructs  the  law.  You  must  obey  me  for  the  next  half- 
hour,  to  prove  that  you  are  not  Bute's  accomplice." 

"He's  only  my  mate,  and  our  rule  is  ter  stand  by  each 
other;  but,  as  you  say,  I  can't  help  myself,  and  there's  no 
use  of  my  goin'  ter  jail. ' ' 

"I  should  think  not,"  added  Brandt,  appealing  to  the 
fellow's  selfish  hope  of  escaping  further  trouble  if  Bute  was 
taken.  "Now  get  my  prisoner  out  of  bed  and  dress  him  as 
soon  as  possible." 

"But  he  ain't  able  ter  be  moved.  The  superintendent 
said  he  wasn't." 

"That's  my  business,  not  yours.     Do  as  I  bid  you." 

"Why  don't  yer  yell  fer  help?"  said  Bute,  in  a  hoarse 
whisper. 

"Because  he  knows  I'd  shoot  him  if  he  did,"  remarked 
Brandt,  coolly. 

"Come,  old  man,"  said  Jack,  "luck's  agin  yer.  Ef 
there's  any  hollerin'  ter  be  done,  yer's  as  able  ter  do  that 
as  I  be." 

"Quick,  quick!  jerk  him  out  of  bed  and  get  him  into  his 
clothes.  I  won't  permit  one  false  move." 

Jack  now  believed  that  his  only  means  of  safety  was  to 
be  as  expeditious  as  possible,  and  that  if  Bute  was  taken 


TAKEN  ALIVE  59 

safely  he  would  be  left  unmolested.  People  of  their  class 
rarely  keep  faith  with  one  another  when  it  is  wholly  against 
their  interests  to  do  so.  Therefore,  in  spite  of  the  wounded 
man's  groans,  he  was  quickly  dressed  and  his  hands  tied  be 
hind  him.  As  he  opened  his  mouth  to  give  expression  to  his 
protests,  he  found  himself  suddenly  gagged  by  Brandt,  who 
stood  behind  him.  Then  a  strap  was  buckled  about  his  feet, 
and  he  lay  on  the  floor  helpless  and  incapable  of  making  a 
sound. 

"Now,  Jack,"  said  Brandt,  "go  before  me  and  bridle 
and  saddle  the  pony;  then  bring  him  to  the  door." 

Jack  obeyed. 

"Now  put  Bute  upon  him.  I'll  hold  his  head;  but  re 
member  I'm  covering  you  with  a  dead  bead  all  the  time." 

"No  need  of  that.     I'm  civil  enough  now." 

"Well,  you  know  we're  sort  of  strangers,  and  it's  no  more 
than  prudent  for  me  to  be  on  the  safe  side  till  we  part  com 
pany.  That's  right,  strap  his  feet  underneath.  Now  lead 
the  pony  in  such  directions  as  I  say.  Don't  try  to  make  off 
till  I'm  through  with  you,  or  you'll  be  shot  instantly.  I 
shall  keep  within  a  yard  of  you  all  the  time." 

They  were  not  long  in  reaching  the  horse  that  Brandt 
had  borrowed,  and  Jack  said,  "I  s'pose  I  kin  go  now." 

"First  untie  Bute's  hands  so  he  can  guide  the  pony." 

As  the  fellow  attempted  to  do  this,  and  his  two  hands 
were  close  together,  Brandt  slipped  a  pair  of  light  steel 
handcuffs  over  his  wrists,  and  the  man  was  in  his  power. 
Almost  before  the  new  prisoner  could  recover  from  his  sur 
prise,  he  was  lifted  on  the  borrowed  horse,  and  his  legs  also 
tied  underneath. 

"This  ain't  fa'r.  You  promised  ter  let  me  go  when  you 
got  Bute  off." 

"I  haven't  got  him  off  yet.  Of  course  I  can't  let  you  go 
right  back  and  bring  a  dozen  men  after  us.  You  must  be 
reasonable. ' ' 

The  fellow  yelled  for  help;  but  the  wind  swept  the  sound 
away. 


60  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

"If  you  do  that  again,  I'll  gag  you  too,"  said  Brandt. 
"I  tell  you  both  once  more,  and  I  won't  repeat  the  caution, 
that  your  lives  depend  on  obedience."  Then  he  mounted, 
and  added,  "Bute,  I'm  going  to  untie  your  hands,  and  you 
must  ride  on  ahead  of  me.  I'll  lead  Jack's  horse." 

In  a  moment  he  had  his  prisoners  in  the  road,  and  was 
leaving  the  mine  at  a  sharp  pace.  Bute  was  so  cowed  and 
dazed  with  terror  that  he  obeyed  mechanically.  The  stream 
was  no  longer  a  shallow  brook,  but  a  raging  torrent  which 
almost  swept  them  away  as  Brandt  urged  them  relentlessly 
through  it.  The  tavern  was  dark  and  silent  as  they  passed 
quickly  by  it.  Then  Brandt  took  the  gag  from  Bute's 
mouth,  and  he  groaned,  cursed,  and  pleaded  by  turns. 
Hour  after  hour  he  urged  them  forward,  until  at  last  Bute 
gave  out  and  fell  forward  on  the  pony's  neck.  Brandt  dis 
mounted  and  gave  the  exhausted  man  a  draught  from  his 
flask. 

"Oh,  shoot  me  and  have  done  with  it!"  groaned  Bute; 
"I'd  rather  be  shot  than  hanged  anyhow." 

"Couldn't  think  of  it,"  replied  the  detective,  cheerily. 
"My  rule  is  to  take  prisoners  alive,  so  that  they  can  have  a 
fair  trial  and  be  sure  that  they  get  justice.  I'd  take  you  the 
rest  of  the  way  in  a  bed  if  I  could,  but  if  you  can't  sit  up, 
I'll  have  to  tie  you  on.  We'll  reach  a  friend  of  mine  by 
daylight,  and  then  you  can  ride  in  a  wagon,  so  brace  up." 

This  the  outlaw  did  for  a  time,  and  then  he  gave  out 
utterly  and  was  tied  more  securely  to  the  pony.  Out  of 
compassion,  Brandt  thereafter  travelled  more  slowly;  and 
when  the  sun  was  an  hour  high,  he  led  his  forlorn  captives 
to  the  house  of  a  man  whom  he  knew  could  be  depended 
upon  for  assistance.  After  a  rest  sufficient  to  give  Bute 
time  to  recover  somewhat,  the  remainder  of  the  journey 
was  made  without  any  incident  worth  mentioning,  and  the 
prisoners  were  securely  lodged  in  jail  on  the  evening  of  the 
24th  of  December. 


TAKEN   ALIVE  61 


CHAPTER  V 

WHAT   BRANDT   SAW   CHRISTMAS   EVE 

BRANDT'S  words  and  effort  had  had  their  natural  effect 
on  the  mind  of  Clara  Heyward.  They  proved  an  in 
creasing  diversion  of  her  thoughts,  and  slowly  dis 
pelled  the  morbid,  leaden  grief  under  which  she  had  been 
sinking.  Her  new  anxiety  in  regard  to  her  lover's  fortune 
and  possible  fate  was  a  healthful  counter-irritant.  Half 
consciously  she  yielded  to  the  influence  of  his  strong,  hope 
ful  spirit,  and  almost  before  she  was  aware  of  it,  she  too 
began  to  hope.  Chief  of  all,  his  manly  tenderness  and  un- 
bargaining  love  stole  into  her  heart  like  a  subtle  balm;  and 
responsive  love,  the  most  potent  of  remedies,  was  renewing 
her  life.  She  found  herself  counting  the  days  and  then  the 
hours  that  must  intervene  before  the  25th.  On  Christmas 
eve  her  woman's  nature  triumphed,  and  she  instinctively 
added  such  little  graces  to  her  toilet  as  her  sombre  costume 
permitted.  She  also  arranged  her  beautiful  hair  in  the  style 
which  she  knew  he  admired.  He  might  come;  and  she  de 
termined  that  his  first  glance  should  reveal  that  he  was  not 
serving  one  who  was  coldly  apathetic  to  his  brave  endeavor 
and  loyalty. 

Indeed,  even  she  herself  wondered  at  the  changes  that 
had  taken  place  during  the  brief  time  which  had  elapsed 
since  their  parting.  There  was  a  new  light  in  her  eyes, 
and  a  delicate  bloom  tinged  her  cheeks. 

"Oh,"  she  murmured,  "it's  all  so  different  now  that  I 
feel  that  I  can  live  for  him  and  make  him  happy. ' ' 

She  was  sure  that  she  could  welcome  him  in  a  way  that 
would  assure  him  of  the  fulfilment  of  all  his  hopes;  but 


62  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

when  he  did  come  with  his  eager,  questioning  eyes,  she 
suddenly  found  herself  under  a  strange  restraint,  tongue- 
tied  and  embarrassed.  She  longed  to  put  her  arms  about 
his  neck  and  tell  him  all — the  new  life,  the  new  hope  which 
his  look  of  deep  affection  had  kindled;  and  in  effort  for 
self-control,  she  seemed  to  him  almost  cold.  He  therefore 
became  perplexed  and  uncertain  of  his  ground,  and  took 
refuge  in  the  details  of  his  expedition,  meanwhile  mentally 
assuring  himself  that  he  must  keep  his  word  and  put  no  con 
straint  on  the  girl  contrary  to  the  dictates  of  her  heart. 

As  his  mind  grew  clearer,  his  keen  observation  began  to 
reveal  hopeful  indications.  She  was  listening  intently  with 
approval,  and  something  more  in  her  expression,  he  dared 
to  fancy.  Suddenly  he  exclaimed,  "How  changed  you  are 
for  the  better,  Clara!  You  are  lovelier  to-night  than  ever 
you  were.  What  is  it  in  your  face  that  is  so  sweet  and  be 
wildering?  You  were  a  pretty  girl  before;  now  you  are  a 
beautiful  woman." 

The  color  came  swiftly  at  his  words,  and  she  faltered  as 
she  averted  her  eyes,  "Please  go  on  with  your  story,  Ralph. 
You  have  scarcely  begun  yet.  I  fear  you  were  in  danger." 

He  came  and  stood  beside  her.  "Clara,"  he  pleaded, 
"look  at  me." 

Hesitatingly  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  hope  I  see?" 

The  faintest  suggestion  of  a  smile  hovered  about  her 
trembling  lips. 

"I  hope  I  see  what  you  surely  see  in  mine.  Come, 
Clara,  you  shall  choose  before  you  hear  my  story.  Am  I 
to  be  your  husband  or  friend  ?  for  I've  vowed  that  you  shall 
not  be  without  a  loyal  protector." 

"Ralph,  Ralph,"  she  cried,  springing  up  and  hiding  her 
face  on  his  shoulder,  "I  have  no  choice  at  all.  You  know 
how  I  loved  papa;  but  I've  learned  that  there's  another 
and  different  kind  of  love.  I  didn't  half  understand  you 
when  you  first  spoke;  now  1  do.  You  will  always  see  in 
my  eyes  what  you've  seen  to-night." 


FOUND    YET    LOST 


CHAPTER   T 

LOVE   IN   THE   WILDERNESS 

HOPELESS  indeed  must  that  region  be  which  May 
cannot  clothe  with  some  degree  of  beauty  and  em 
broider  with  flowers.  On  the  5th  day  of  the  month 
the  early  dawn"  revealed  much  that  would  charm  the  eyes 
of  all  true  lovers  of  nature  even  in  that  section  of  Virginia 
whose  characteristics  so  grimly  correspond  with  its  name — 
The  Wilderness.  The  low  pines  and  cedars,  which  abound 
everywhere,  had  taken  a  fresh  green;  the  deciduous  trees, 
the  tangled  thickets,  impenetrable  in  many  places  by  horse 
or  man,  were  putting  forth  a  new,  tender  foliage,  tinted 
with  a  delicate  semblance  of  autumn  hues.  Flowers  bloomed 
everywhere,  humbly  in  the  grass  close  to  the  soil  as  well  as 
on  the  flaunting  sprays  of  shrubbery  and  vines,  filling  the  air 
with  fragrance  as  the  light  touched  and  expanded  the  petals. 
Wood-thrushes  and  other  birds  sang  as  melodiously  and 
contentedly  as  if  they  had  selected  some  breezy  upland 
forest  for  their  nesting-place  instead  of  a  region  which  has 
become  a  synonym  for  gloom,  horror,  and  death. 

Lonely  and  uninhabited  in  its  normal  condition,  this  for 
bidding  wilderness  had  become  peopled  with  thousands  of 
men.  The  Army  of  the  Potomac  was  penetrating  and  seek 
ing  to  pass  through  it.  Vigilant  General  Lee  had  observed 
the  movement,  and  with  characteristic  boldness  and  skill 
ordered  his  troops  from  their  strong  intrenchments  on  Mine 
Run  toward  the  Union  flank.  On  this  memorable  morning 
the  van  of  his  columns  wakened  from  their  brief  repose  but 
a  short  distance  from  the  Federal  bivouac.  Both  parties 
were  unconscious  of  their  nearness,  for  with  the  exception 
of  a  few  clearings  the  dense  growth  restricted  vision  to  a 

(63) 


64  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

narrow  range.  The  Union  forces  were  directed  in  their 
movements  by  the  compass,  as  if  they  were  sailors  on  a  fog- 
enshrouded  sea;  but  they  well  knew  that  they  were  seeking 
their  old  antagonist,  the  Army  of  Northern  Virginia,  and 
that  the  stubborn  tug-of-war  might  begin  at  any  moment. 

When  Captain  Nichol  shook  off  the  lethargy  of  a  brief 
troubled  sleep,  he  found  that  the  light  did  not  banish  his 
gloomy  impressions.  Those  immediately  around  him  were 
still  slumbering,  wrapped  in  their  blankets.  Few  sounds 
other  than  the  voices  of  the  awakening  birds  broke  the 
silence.  After  a  little  thought  he  drew  his  notebook  from 
his  pocket  and  wrote  as  follows: 

"MY  DARLING  HELEN — I  obey  an  impulse  to  write  to  you  this  morning. 
It  is  scarcely  light  enough  to  see  as  yet;  but  very  soon  we  shall  be  on  the 
move  again  to  meet — we  known  not  what,  certainly  heavy,  desperate  fighting. 
I  do  not  know  why  I  am  so  sad.  I  have  faced  the  prospect  of  battles  many 
times  before,  and  have  passed  through  them  unharmed,  but  now  I  am  depressed 
by  an  unusual  foreboding.  Naturally  my  thoughts  turn  to  you.  There  was  no 
formal  engagement  between  us  when  I  said  those  words  (so  hard  to  speak) 
of  farewell,  nor  have  I  sought  to  bind  you  since.  Every  month  has  made  more 
clear  the  uncertainty  of  life  in  my  calling;  and  I  felt  that  I  had  no  right  to  lay 
upon  you  any  restraint  other  than  that  of  your  own  feelings.  If  the  worst 
happened  you  would  be  free  as  far  as  I  was  concerned,  and  few  would  know  that 
we  had  told  each  other  of  our  love.  I  wish  to  tell  you  of  mine  once  more — not 
for  the  last  time,  I  hope,  but  I  don't  know.  I  do  love  you  with  my  whole 
heart  and  soul ;  and  if  I  am  to  die  in  this  horrible  wilderness,  where  so  many 
of  my  comrades  died  a  year  ago,  my  last  thoughts  will  be  of  you  and  of  the 
love  of  God,  which  your  love  has  made  more  real  to  me.  I  love  you  too  well 
to  wish  my  death,  should  it  occur,  to  spoil  your  young  life.  I  do  not  ask  you 
to  forget  me — that  would  be  worse  than  death ;  but  I  ask  you  to  try  to  be 
happy  and  to  make  others  happy  as  the  years  pass  on.  This  bloody  war  will 
come  to  an  end,  will  become  a  memory,  and  those  who  perish  hope  to  be  re 
membered  ;  but  I  do  not  wish  my  memory  to  hang  like  a  cloud  over  the  happy 
days  of  peace.  I  close,  my  darling,  in  hope,  not  fear — hope  for  you,  hope  for 
me,  whatever  may  happen  to-day  or  on  coming  days  of  strife.  It  only  remains 
for  me  to  do  my  duty.  I  trust  that  you  will  also  do  yours,  which  may  be  even 
harder.  Do  not  give  way  to  despairing  grief  if  I  cannot  come  back  to  you  in 
this  world.  Let  your  faith  in  God  and  hope  of  a  future  life  inspire  and 
strengthen  you  in  your  battles,  which  may  require  more  courage  and  unselfish, 
ness  than  mine. 

"Yours,  either  in  life  or  death,  ALBERT  NIOHOL." 


FOUND    YET   LOST  65 

He  made  another  copy  of  this  letter,  put  both  in  enve 
lopes,  and  addressed  them,  then  sought  two  men  of  his 
company  who  came  from  his  native  village.  They  were 
awake  now  and  boiling  their  coffee.  The  officer  and  the 
privates  had  grown  np  as  boys  together  with  little  differ 
ence  of  social  standing  in  the  democratic  town.  When  off 
duty,  there  still  existed  much  of  the  old  familiarity  and 
friendly  converse,  but  when  Captain  Nichol  gave  an  order, 
his  townsmen  immediately  became  conscious  that  they  were 
separated  from  him  by  the  iron  wall  of  military  discipline. 
This  characteristic  did  not  alienate  his  old  associates.  One 
of  the  men  hit  the  truth  fairly  in  saying:  "When  Cap 
speaks  as  Cap,  he's  as  hard  and  sharp  as  a  bayonet- point; 
but  when  a  feller  is  sick  and  worn  out  'tween  times  you'd 
think  your  granny  was  coddlin'  yer. " 

It  was  as  friend  and  old  neighbor  that  Nichol  approached 
Sam  and  Jim  Wetherby,  two  stalwart  brothers  who  had  en 
listed  in  his  company.  "Boys,"  he  said,  " I  have  a  favor  to 
ask  of  you.  The  Lord  only  knows  how  the  day  will  end  for 
any  of  us.  We  will  take  our  chances  and  do  our  duty,  as 
usual.  I  hope  we  may  all  boil  coffee  again  to-night;  but 
who  knows?  Here  are  two  letters.  If  I  should  fall,  and 
either  or  both  of  you  come  out  all  right,  as  I  trust  you 
will,  please  forward  them.  If  I  am  with  you  again  to-night, 
return  them  to  me." 

"Come,  Captain,"  said  Jim,  heartily,  "the  bullet  isn't 
molded  that  can  harm  you.  You'll  lead  us  into  Eichmond 
yet." 

"It  will  not  be  from  lack  of  goodwill  if  I  don't.  I  like 
your  spirit;  and  I  believe  the  army  will  get  there  this  time 
whether  I'm  with  it  or  not.  Do  as  I  ask.  There  is  no  harm 
in  providing  against  what  may  happen.  Make  your  break 
fast  quickly,  for  orders  may  come  at  any  moment;"  and  he 
strode  away  to  look  after  the  general  readiness  of  his  men. 

The  two  brothers  compared  the  address  on  the  letters 
and  laughed  a  little  grimly.  "Cap  is  a-providing,  sure 
enough,-"  Sam  Wetherby  remarked.  "They  are  both  writ- 


66  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

ten  to  the  pretty  Helen  Kemble  that  he  used  to  make  eyes 
at  in  the  singing-school.  I  guess  he  thinks  that  you  might 
stop  a  bullet  as  well  as  himself,  Jim." 

"It's  clear  he  thinks  your  chances  for  taking  in  lead  are 
just  as  good,"  replied  Jim.  "But  come,  I'm  one  of  them 
fellows  that's  never  hit  till  I  am  hit.  One  thing  at  a,  time, 
and  now  it's  breakast." 

"Well,  hanged  if  I  want  to  charge  under  the  lead  of  any 
other  captain!"  remarked  Sam,  meditatively  sipping  his 
coffee.  "If  that  girl  up  yonder  knows  Cap's  worth,  she'll 
cry  her  eyes  out  if  anything  happens  to  him." 

A  few  moments  later  the  birds  fled  to  the  closest  cover, 
startled  by  the  innumerable  bugles  sounding  the  note  of 
preparation.  Soon  the  different  corps,  divisions,  and  bri 
gades  were  upon  their  prescribed  lines  of  march.  No  move 
ment  could  be  made  without  revealing  the  close  proximity 
of  the  enemy.  Rifle-reports  from  skirmish  lines  and  recon 
noitring  parties  speedily  followed.  A  Confederate  force  was 
developed  on  the  turnpike  leading  southwest  from  the  old 
Wilderness  Tavern ;  and  the  fighting  began.  At  about  eight 
o'clock  Grant  and  Meade  came  up  and  made  their  head 
quarters  beneath  some  pine-trees  near  the  tavern.  General 
Grant  could  scarcely  believe  at  first  that  Lee  had  left  his 
strong  intrenchments  to  give  battle  in  a  region  little  better 
than  a  jungle;  but  he  soon  had  ample  and  awful  proof  of 
the  fact.  Practically  unseen  by  each  other,  the  two  armies 
grappled  like  giants  in  the  dark.  So  thick  were  the  trees 
and  undergrow,th  that  a  soldier  on  a  battle  line  could  rarely 
see  a  thousand  men  on  either  side  of  him,  yet  nearly  two 
hundred  thousand  men  matched  their  deadly  strength  that 
day.  Hundreds  fell,  died,  and  were  hidden  forever  from 
human  eyes. 

Thinking  to  sweep  away  the  rear-guard  of  Lee's  retreat 
ing  army,  Grant  ordered  a  strong  advance  on  the  pike  in 
the  afternoon.  At  first  it  was  eminently  successful,  and 
if  it  had  been  followed  up  vigorously  and  steadily,  as  it 
undoubtedly  would  have  been  if  the  commander  had  known 


FOUND    YET  LOST  67 

what  was  afterward  revealed,  it  might  have  resulted  in 
severe  disaster  to  the  Confederates.  The  enemy  was  pressed 
back  rapidly;  and  the  advancing  Union  forces  were  filled 
with  enthusiasm.  Before  this  early  success  culminated, 
genuine  sorrow  saddened  every  one  in  Captain  Nichol's 
company.  With  his  face  toward  the  enemy,  impetuously 
leading  his  men,  he  suddenly  dropped  his  sword  and  fell 
senseless.  Sam  and  Jim  Wetherby  heard  a  shell  shrieking 
toward  them,  and  saw  it  explode  directly  over  their  be 
loved  leader.  They  rushed  to  his  side;  blood  was  pouring 
over  his  face,  and  it  also  seemed  to  them  that  a  fragment 
of  the  shell  had  fatally  wounded  him  in  the  forehead. 

"Poor  Cap,  poor,  brave  Cap!"  ejaculated  Sam.  "He 
didn't  give  us  those  letters  for  nothing." 

"A  bad  job,  an  awfully  bad  job  for  us  all!  curse  the  eyes 
that  aimed  that  shell!"  growled  practical  Jim.  "Here,  take 
hold.  We'll  put  him  in  that  little  dry  ditch  we  just  passed, 
and  bury  him  after  the  fight,  if  still  on  our  pins.  We  can't 
leave  him  here  to  be  tramped  on." 

This  they  did,  then  hastily  rejoined  their  company,  which 
had  swept  on  with  the  battle  line.  Alas!  that  battle  line 
and  others  also  were  driven  back  with  terrible  slaughter 
before  the  day  closed.  Captain  Nichol  was  left  in  the  ditch 
where  he  had  been  placed,  and  poor  Sam  Wetherby  lay  on 
his  back,  staring  with  eyes  that  saw  not  at  a  shattered  bird's 
nest  in  the  bushes  above  his  head.  The  letter  in  his  pocket 
mouldered  with  him. 

Jim's  begrimed  and  impassive  face  disguised  an  aching 
heart  as  he  boiled  his  coffee  alone  that  night.  Then,  al 
though  wearied  almost  to  exhaustion,  he  gave  himself  no 
rest  until  he  had  found  what  promised  to  be  the  safest 
means  of  forwarding  the  letter  in  his  pocket. 


TAKEN    ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 


CHAPTER  II 

LOVE      AT      HOME 

LONG  ygars  before  the  war,  happy  children  were  grow 
ing  in  the  village  of  Alton.  They  studied  the  his 
tory  of  wars  much  as  they  conned  their  lessons  in 
geography.  Scenes  of  strife  belonged  to  the  past,  or  were 
enacted  among  people  wholly  unlike  any  who  dwelt  in  their 
peaceful  community.  That  Americans  should  ever  fight  each 
other  was  as  undreamed  of  as  that  the  minister  should  have 
a  pitched  battle  in  the  street  with  his  Sunday-school  super 
intendent.  They  rejoiced  mildly  when  in  their  progress 
through  the  United  States  history  they  came  to  pages 
descriptive  of  Indian  wars  and  the  Revolutionary  struggle, 
since  they  found  their  lessons  then  more  easily  remembered 
than  the  wordy  disputes  and  little  understood  decisions  of 
statesmen.  The  first  skating  on  the  pond  was  an  event  which 
far  transcended  in  importance  anything  related  between 
the  green  covers  of  the  old  history  book,  while  to  Albert 
Nichol  the  privilege  of  strapping  skates  on  the  feet  of  little 
Helen  Kemble,  and  gliding  away  with  her  over  the  smooth 
ice,  was  a  triumph  unknown  by  any  general.  He  was  the 
son  of  a  plain  farmer,  and  she  the  daughter  of  the  village 
banker.  Thus,  even  in  childhood,  there  was  thrown  around 
her  the  glamour  of  position  and  reputed  wealth— advantages 
which  have  their  value  among  the  most  democratic  folk, 
although  slight  outward  deference  may  be  paid  to  their 
possessors.  It  was  the  charming  little  face  itself,  with  \ts 
piquant  smiles  and  still  more  piquant  pouts,  which  won 
Albert's  boyish  admiration.  The  fact  that  she  was  the 


FOUND    YET  LOST  69 

banker's  daughter  only  fired  his  ambition  to  be  and  to  do 
something  to  make  her  proud  of  him. 

Hobart  Martine,  another  boy  of  the  village,  shared  'all 
his  schoolmate's  admiration  for  pretty  Nellie,  as  she  was 
usually  called.  He  had  been  lame  from  birth,  and  could 
not  skate.  He  could  only  shiver  on  the  bank  or  stamp 
around  to  keep  himself  warm,  while  the  athletic  Al  and  the 
graceful  little  girl  passed  and  repassed,  quite  forgetting 
him.  There  was  one  thing  he  could  do;  and  this  pleasure 
he  waited  for  till  often  numb  with  cold.  He  could  draw  the 
child  on  his  sled  to  her  home,  which  adjoined  his  own. 

When  it  came  his  turn  to  do  this,  and  he  limped  patiently 
through  the  snow,  tugging  at  the  rope,  his  heart  grew  warm 
as  well  as  his  chilled  body.  She  was  a  rather  imperious  lit 
tle  belle  with1  the  other  boys,  but  was  usually  gentle  with 
him  because  he  was  lame  and  quiet.  When  she  thanked 
him  kindly  and  pleasantly  at  her  gate,  he  was  so  happy  that 
he  could  scarcely  eat  his  supper.  Then  his  mother  would 
laugh  and  say,  "You've  been  with  your  little  sweetheart." 
He  would  flush  and  make  no  reply. 

How  little  did  those  children  dream  of  war,  even  when 
studying  their  history  lessons  1  Yet  Albert  Nichol  now  lay 
in  the  Wilderness  jungle.  He  had  done  much  to  make  his 
little  playmate  proud  of  him.  The  sturdy  boy  developed 
into  a  manly  man.  When  he  responded  to  his  country's 
call  and  raised  a  company  among  his  old  friends  and  neigh 
bors,  Helen  Kemble  exulted  over  him  tearfully.  She  gave 
him  the  highest  tribute  within  her  power  and  dearest  pos 
session — her  heart.  She  made  every  campaign  with  him, 
following  him  with  love's  untiring  solicitude  through  the 
scenes  he  described,  until  at  last  the  morning  paper  turned 
the  morning  sunshine  into  mockery  and  the  songs  of  the 
birds  into  dirges.  Captain  Nichol's  name  was  on  the  list 
of  the  killed. 

With  something  of  the  same  jealousy,  developed  and  in 
tensified,  which  he  had  experienced  while  watching  Albert 
glide  away  on  the  ice  with  the  child  adored  in  a  dumb,  boy- 


70  TAKEN   ALIVE:   AND   OTHER  .STORIES 

ish  way,  Hobart  had  see  his  old  schoolmate  depart  for  the 
front.  Then  his  rival  took  the  girl  from  him;  now  he* took 
her  heart.  Martine's  lameness  kept  him  irom  being  a  sol 
dier.  He  again  virtually  stood  chilled  on  the  bank,  with 
a  cold,  dreary,  hopeless  feeling  which  he  believed  would 
benumb  his  life.  He  did  not  know,  he  was  not  sure  that 
he  had  lost  Helen  beyond  hope,  until  those  lurid  days  when 
men  on  both  sides  were  arming  and  drilling  for  mutual 
slaughter.  She  was  always  so  kind  to  him,  and  her  tones 
so  gentle  when  she  spoke,  that  in  love's  fond  blindness  he 
had  dared  to  hope.  He  eventually  learned  that  she  was 
only  sorry  for  him.  He  did  not,  could  not,  blame  her,  for 
he  needed  but  to  glance  at  Nichol's  stalwart  form,  and  re 
call  the  young  soldier's  record,  in  order  to  know  that  it 
would  be  strange  indeed  if  the  girl  had  chosen  otherwise. 
He  would  have  been  more  than  human  if  there  had  not  been 
some  bitterness  in  his  heart;  but  he  fought  it  down  honestly, 
and  while  pursuing  his  peaceful  avocations  engaged  in  what 
he  believed  would  be  a  lifelong  battle.  He  smiled  at  the 
girl  across  the  garden  fence  and  called  out  his  cheery  "Good- 
morning."  He  was  her  frequent  companion  by  the  fireside 
or  on  the  piazza,  according  to  the  season ;  and  he  alone  of  the 
young  men  was  welcome,  for  she  had  little  sympathy  for 
those  who  remained  at  home  without  his  excuse.  He  was  so 
bravely  her  friend,  keeping  his  great  love  so  sternly  re 
pressed  that  she  only  felt  it  like  a  genial  warmth  in  his 
tones  and  manner,  and  believed  that  he  was  becoming  in 
truth  what  he  seemed,  merely  a  friend. 

On  that  terrible  May  morning  he  was  out  in  the  garden 
and  heard  her  wild,  despairing  cry  as  she  read  the  fatal 
words.  He  knew  that  a  heavy  battle  had  been  begun,  and 
was  going  down  to  the  gate  for  his  paper,  which  the  news 
boy  had  just  left.  There  was  no  need  of  opening  it,  for  the 
bitter  cry  he  had  heard  made  known  to  him  the  one  item  of 
Intelligence  compared  with  which  all  else  for  the  time  be 
came  insignificant.  Was  it  the  Devil  that  inspired  a  great 
throb  of  hope  in  his  heart  ?  At  any  rate  he  thought  it  was, 


FOUND    YET   LOST  71 

and  ground  his  heel  into  the  gravel  as  if  the  serpent's  head 
was  beneath  it,  then  limped  to  Mr.  Kemble's  door. 

The  old  banker  came  out  to  meet  him,  shaking  his  gray 
head  and  holding  the  paper  in  his  trembling  hand.  "Ah!" 
he  groaned,  "I've  feared  it,  I've  feared  it  all  along,  but 
hoped  that  it  would  not  be.  You've  seen  Nichol's  name — " 
but  he  could  not  finish  the  sentence. 

"No,  I  have  seen  nothing;  I  only  heard  Helen's  cry. 
That  told  the  whole  story." 

"Yes.  Well,  her  mother's  with  her.  Poor  girl!  poor 
girl !  God  grant  it  isn't  her  death-blow  too.  She  has  suf 
fered  too  much  under  this  long  strain  of  anxiety." 

A  generous  resolve  was  forming  in  Martine's  mind,  and 
he  said  earnestly,  "We  must  tide  her  through  this  terrible 
shock.  There  may  be  some  mistake;  he  may  be  only 
wounded.  Do  not  let  her  give  up  hope  absolutely.  I'll 
drop  everything  and  go  to  the  battlefield  at  once.  If  the 
worst  has  in  truth  happened,  I  can  bring  home  his  remains, 
and  that  would  be  a  comfort  to  her.  A  newspaper  report, 
made  up  hastily  in  the  field,  is  not  final.  Let  this  hope 
break  the  cruel  force  of  the  blow,  for  it  is  hard  to  live  with- 
out  hope." 

"Well,  Hobart,  you  are  a  true  friend.  God  bless  and 
reward  you !  If  nothing  comes  of  it  for  poor  Nichol,  as  I 
fear  nothing  will,  your  journey  and  effort  will  give  a  faint 
hope  to  Nellie,  and,  as  you  say,  break  the  force  of  the  blow. 
I'll  go  and  tell  her." 

Martine  went  into  the  parlor,  which  Helen  had  decorated 
with  mementoes  of  her  soldier  lover.  He  was  alone  but  a  few 
moments  before  he  heard  hasty  steps.  Helen  entered  with 
hot,  tearless  eyes  and  an  agonized,  imploring  expression. 

"What!"  she  cried,  "is  it  true  that  you'll  go?" 

"Yes,  Helen,  immediately.  I  do  not  think  there's  reason 
for  despair." 

"Oh,  God  bless  you!  friend,  friend!  1  never  knew  what 
the  word  meant  before.  Oh,  Hobart,  no  sister  ever  lav 
ished  love  on  a  brother  as  I  will  love  you  if  you  bring  back 


72  TAKEN    ALIVE:   AND    OTHER   STORIES 

my  Albert;"  and  in  the  impulse  of  her  overwhelming  grati 
tude  she  buried  her  face  on  his  shoulder  and  sobbed  aloud. 
Hope  already  brought  the  relief  of  tears. 

He  stroked  the  bowed  head  gently,  saying,  "God  is  my 
witness,  Helen,  that  I  will  spare  no  pains  and  shrink  from 
no  danger  in  trying  to  find  Captain  Nichol.  I  have  known 
of  many  instances  where  the  first  reports  of  battles  proved 
incorrect;"  and  he  led  her  to  a  chair. 

4 lit  is  asking  so  much  of  you,"  she  faltered. 

"You  have  asked  nothing,  Helen.  I  have  offered  to  go, 
and  1  am  going.  It  is  a  little  thing  for  me  to  do.  You 
know  that  my  lameness  only  kept  me  from  joining  Captain 
Nichol's  company.  Now  try  to  control  your  natural  feel 
ings  like  a  brave  girl,  while  I  explain  my  plans  as  far  as 
I  have  formed  them." 

"Yes,  yes!  Wait  a  few  moments.  Oh,  this  pain  at  my 
heart!  I  think  it  would  have  broken  if  you  hadn't  come. 
I  couldn't  breathe;  I  just  felt  as  if  sinking  under  a 
weight" 

"Take  courage,  Helen.     .Remember  Albert  is  a  soldier." 

"/*,  is  I  Oh,  thanks  for  that  little  word!  You  do  not 
believe  that  he  is  gone  and  lost  to  me  ?" 

"I  cannot  believe  it  yet.  We  will  not  believe  it  Now 
listen  patiently,  for  you  will  have  your  part  to  do. ' ' 

"Yes,  yes;  if  I  could  only  do  something!  That  would 
help  me  so  much.  Oh,  if  I  could  only  go  with  you!" 

"That  would  not  be  best  or  wise,  and  might  defeat  my 
efforts.  I  must  be  free  to  go  where  you  could  not — to  visit 
places  unsafe  for  you.  My  first  step  must  be  to  get  letters 
to  our  State  Senator.  Your  father  can  write  one,  and  I'll 
get  one  or  two  others.  The  Senator  will  give  me  a  letter  to 
the  Governor,  who  in  turn  will  accredit  me  to  the  authorities 
at  Washington  and  the  officer  in  command  on  the  battle 
field.  You  know  I  shall  need  passes.  Those  who  go  to 
the  extreme  front  must  be  able  to  account  for  themselves. 
I  will  keep  in  telegraphic  communication  with  you,  and  you 
may  receive  additional  tidings  which  will  aid  me  in  my 


FOUND    YET  LOST  73 

search.  Mr.  Kemble!"  he  concluded,  calling  her  father 
from  his  perturbed  pacing  up  and  down  the  hall. 

kkAh!"  said  the  banker,  entering,  "this  is  a  hundred-fold 
better  than  despairing,  useless  grief.  I've  heard  the  gist 
of  what  Hobart  has  said,  and  approve  it.  JSow  I'll  call 
mother,  so  that  we  may  all  take  courage  and  get  a  good 
grip  on  hope." 

They  consulted  together  briefly,  and  in  the  prospect  of 
action,  Helen  was  carried  through  the  first  dangerous  crisis 
In  her  experience. 


4 — ROE — XI 


74  TAKEN   ALIVE     AND    OTHER   STORIES 


M' 


CHAPTER  III 
"DISABLED" 

RS.  MARTINE  grieved  over  her  son's  unexpected 
resolve.  In  her  estimation  he  was  engaging  in  a 
very  dangerous  and  doubtful  expedition.  Proba 
bly  mothers  will  never  outgrow  a  certain  jealousy  when 
they  find  that  another  woman  has  become  first  in  the  hearts 
of  their  sons.  The  sense  of  robbery  was  especially  strong 
in  this  case,  for  Mrs.  Martine  was  a  widow,  and  Hobart  an 
only  and  idolized  child. 

The  mother  speedily  saw  that  it  would  be  useless  to 
remonstrate,  and  tearfully  aided  him  in  his  preparations. 
Before  he  departed,  he  won  her  over  as  an  ally.  "These 
times,  mother,  are  bringing  heavy  burdens  to  very  many, 
and  we  should  help  each  other  bear  them.  You  know  what 
Helen  is  to  me,  and  must  be  always.  That  is  something 
which  cannot  be  changed.  My  love  has  grown  with  my 
growth  and  become  inseparable  from  my  life.  I  have  my 
times  of  weakness,  but  think  I  can  truly  say  that  I  love  her 
so  well  that  I  would  rather  make  her  happy  at  any  cost  to 
myself.  If  it  is  within  my  power,  I  shall  certainly  bring 
Nichol  back,  alive  or  dead.  Prove  your  love  to  me,  mother, 
by  cheering,  comforting,  and  sustaining  that  poor  girl.  I 
haven't  as  much  hope  of  success  as  I  tried  to  give  her,  but 
she  needs  hope  now;  she  must  have  it,  or  there  is  no  assur 
ance  against  disastrous  effects  on  her  health  and  mind.  I 
couldn't  bear  that." 

"Well,  Hobart,  if  he  is  dead,  she  certainly  ought  to  re 
ward  you  some  day." 


FOUND    YET  LOST  75 

"We  must  not  think  of  that.  The  future  is  not  in  our 
hands.  We  can  only  do  what  is  duty  now." 

Noble,  generous  purposes  give  their  impress  to  that  index 
of  character,  the  human  face.  When  Martine  came  to  say 
good-by  to  Helen,  she  saw  the  quiet,  patient  cripple  in  a 
new  light.  He  no  longer  secured  her  strong  affection  chiefly 
on  the  basis  of  gentle,  womanly  commiseration.  He  was 
proving  the  possession  of  those  qualities  which  appeal 
strongly  to  the  feminine  nature;  he  was  showing  himself 
capable  of  prompt,  courageous  action,  and  his  plain  face, 
revealing  the  spirit  which  animated  him,  became  that  of  a 
hero  in  her  eyes.  She  divined  the  truth — the  love  so  strong 
and  unselfish  that  it  would  sacrifice  itself  utterly  for  her. 
He  was  seeking  to  bring  back  her  lover  when  success  in  his 
mission  would  blot  out  all  hope  for  him.  The  effect  of  his 
action  was  most  salutary,  rousing  her  from  the  inertia  of 
grief  and  despair.  "If  a  mere  friend,"  she  murmured, 
"can  be  so  brave  and  self-forgetful,  I  have  no  excuse  for 
giving  away  utterly." 

She  revealed  in  some  degree  her  new  impressions  in  part 
ing.  "Hobart,"  she  said,  holding  his  hand  in  both  of  hers, 
"you  have  done  much  to  help  me.  You  have  not  only 
brought  hope,  but  you  have  also  shown  a  spirit  which 
would  shame  me  out  of  a  selfish  grief.  I  cannot  now  for 
get  the  claims  of  others,  of  my  dear  father  and  mother  here, 
and  I  promise  you  that  I  will  try  to  be  brave  like  you,  like 
Albert.  I  shall  not  become  a  weak,  helpless  burden,  I  shall 
not  sit  still  and  wring  idle  hands  when  others  are  heroically 
doing  and  suffering.  Good-by,  my  friend,  my  brother. 
God  help  us  all!" 

He  felt  that  she  understood  him  now  as  never  before; 
and  the  knowledge  inspired  a  more  resolute  purpose,  if  this 
were  possible.  That 'afternoon  he  was  on  his  way.  There 
came  two  or  three  days  of  terrible  suspense  for  Helen,  re 
lieved  only  by  telegrams  from  Martine  as  he  passed  from 
point  to  point.  The  poor  girl  struggled  as  a  swimmer 
breasts  pitiless  waves  intervening  between  him  and  the 


76  TAKEN    ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

shore.  She  scarcely  allowed  herself  an  idle  moment;  but 
her  effort  was  feverish  and  in  a  measure  the  result  of  excite 
ment.  The  papers  were  searched  for  any  scrap  of  intelli 
gence,  and  the  daily  mail  waited  for  until  the  hours  and 
minutes  were  counted  before  its  arrival. 

One  morning  her  father  placed  Nichol's  letter  in  her 
hands.  They  so  trembled  in  the  immense  hope,  the  over 
whelming  emotion  which  swept  over  her  at  sight  of  the 
familiar  handwriting,  that  at  first  she  could  not  open  it. 
When  at  last  she  read  the  prophetic  message,  she  almost 
blotted  out  the  writing  with  her  tears,  moaning,  "He's 
dead,  he's  dead!"  In  her  morbid,  overwrought  cpndition, 
the  foreboding  that  had  been  in  the  mind  of  the  writer  was 
conveyed  to  hers;  and  she  practically  gave  up  hope  for  any 
thing  better  than  the  discovery  and  return  of  his  remains. 
Her  father,  mother,  and  intimate  friends  tried  in  vain  to 
rally  her;  but  the  conviction  remained  that  she  had  read 
her  lover's  farewell  words.  In  spite  of  the  most  pathetic 
and  strenuous  effort,  she  could  not  keep  up  any  longer,  and 
sobbed  till  she  slept  in  utter  exhaustion. 

On  the  following  day,  old  Mr.  Wetherby  came  into  the 
bank.  The  lines  about  his  mouth  were  rigid  with  suppressed 
feeling.  He  handed  Mr.  Kemble  a  letter,  saying  in  a  husky 
voice,  "Jim  sent  this.  He  says  at  the  end  1  was  to  show  it 
to  you."  The  scrawl  gave  in  brief  the  details  about  Cap 
tain  Nichol  already  known  to  the  reader,  and  stated  also 
that  Sam  Wetherby  was  missing.  "All  I  know  is,"  wrote 
the  soldier,  "that  we  were  driven  back,  and  bullets  flew 
like  hail.  The  brush  was  so  thick  I  couldn't  see  five  yards 
either  way  when  1  lost  sight  of  Sam." 

The  colonel  of  the  regiment  also  wrote  to  Captain 
iNichol's  father,  confirming  Private  Wetherby's  letter. 
The  village  had  been  thrown  into  a  ferment  by  the  tid 
ings  of  the  battle  and  its  disastrous  consequences.  There 
was  bitter  lamentation  in  many  homes.  Perhaps  the  names 
of  Captain  Nichol  and  Helen  were  oftenest  repeated  in  the 
little  community,  for  the  fact  of  their  mutual  hopes  was  no 


FOUND    YET  LOST  77 

longer  a  secret.  Even  thus  early  some  sagacious  people 
nodded  their  heads  and  remarked,  "flobart  Martine  may 
have  his  chance  yet."  Helen  Kemble  believed  without 
the  shadow  of  a  doubt  that  all  the  heart  she  had  for  love 
had  perished  in  the  wilderness. 

The  facts  contained  in  Jim  Wetherby's  letter  were  tele 
graphed  to  Martine,  and  he  was  not  long  in  discovering  con 
firmation  of  them  in  the  temporary  hospitals  near  the  battle 
field.  He  found  a  man  of  Captain  Nichol's  company  to 
whom  Jim  had  related  the  circumstances.  For  days  the 
loyal  friend  searched  laboriously  the  horrible  region  of 
strife,  often  sickened  nearly  unto  death  by  the  scenes  he 
witnessed,  for  his  nature  had  not  been  rendered  callous  by 
familiarity  with  the  results  of  war.  Then  instead  of  return 
ing  home,  he  employed  the  influence  given  by  his  letters 
and  passes,  backed  by  his  own  earnest  pleading,  to  obtain 
permission  for  a  visit  to  Nichol's  regiment.  He  found  it 
under  fire;  and  long  afterward  Jim  Wetherby  was  fond  of 
relating  how  quietly  the  lame  civilian  listened  to  the  shells 
shrieking  over  and  exploding  around  him.  Thus  Martine 
learned  all  that  could  be  gathered  of  Nichol's  fate,  and 
then,  ill  and  exhausted,  he  turned  his  face  northward.  He 
felt  that  it  would  be  a  hopeless  task  to  renew  his  search  on 
the  battlefield,  much  of  which  had  been  burned  over.  He 
also  had  the  conviction  it  would  be  fatal  to  him  to  look 
upon  its  unspeakable  horrors,  and  breathe  again  its  pesti 
lential  air. 

He  ^as  a  sick  man  when  he  arrived  at  home,  but  was 
able  to  relate  modestly  in  outline  the  history  of  his  efforts, 
Softening  and  concealing  much  that  he  had  witnessed.  In 
the  delirium  of  fever  which  followed,  they  learned  more 
fully  of  what  he  had  endured,  of  how  he  had  forced  himself 
to  look  upon  things  which,  reproduced  in  his  ravings,  almost 
froze  the  blood  of  his  watchers. 

Helen  Kemble  felt  that  her  cup  of  bitterness  had  been 
filled  anew,  yet  the  distraction  of  a  new  grief,  in  which  there 
was  a  certain  remorseful  self-reproach,  had  the  effect  of 


78  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORJES 

blunting  the  sharp  edge  of  her  first  sorrow.  In  this  new 
cause  for  dread  she  was  compelled  in  some  degree  to  forget 
herself.  She  saw  the  intense  solicitude  of  her  father  and 
mother,  who  had  been  so  readily  accessory  to  Martine's  ex 
pedition;  she  also  saw  that  his  mother's  heart  was  almost 
breaking  under  the  strain  of  anxiety.  His  incoherent  words 
were  not  needed  to  reveal  that  his  effort  had  been  prompted 
by  his  love.  She  was  one  of  his  watchers,  patiently  endur 
ing  the  expressions  of  regret  which  the  mother  in  her  sharp 
agony  could  not  repress.  Nichol's  last  letter  was  now 
known  by  heart,  its  every  word  felt  to  be  prophetic.  She 
had  indeed  been  called  upon  to  exercise  courage  and  forti 
tude  greater  than  he  could  manifest  even  in  the  Wilderness 
battle.  Although  she  often  faltered,  she  did  not  fail  in 
carrying  out  his  instructions.  When  at  last  Martine,  a 
pallid  convalescent,  could  sit  in  the  shade  on  the  piazza, 
she  looked  older  by  years,  having,  besides,  the  expression 
seen  in  the  eyes  of  some  women  who  have  suffered  much, 
and  can  still  suffer  much  more.  In  the  matter  relating  to 
their  deepest  consciousness,  no  words  had  passed  between 
them.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  a  widow,  and  hoped  he  would 
understand.  His  full  recognition  of  her  position,  and  ac 
ceptance  of  the  fact  that  she  did  and  must  mourn  for  her 
lover,  his  complete  self-abnegation,  brought  her  a  sense  of 
peace. 

The  old  clock  on  the  landing  of  the  stairway  measured 
off  the  hours  and  days  with  monotonous  regularity.  Some 
of  the  hours  and  days  had  been  immeasurably  longer  than 
the  ancient  timekeeper  had  indicated;  but  in  accordance 
with  usual  human  experiences,  they  began  to  grow  shorter. 
Poignant  sorrow  cannot  maintain  its  severity,  or  people 
could  not  live.  Vines,  grasses,  and  flowers  covered  the 
graves  in  Virginia;  the  little  cares,  duties,  and  amenities  of 
life  began  to  screen  at  times  the  sorrows  that  were  neverthe 
less  ever  present. 

"Hobart,"  Helen  said  one  day  in  the  latter  part  of  June, 
"do  you  think  you  will  be  strong  enough  to  attend  the  com- 


FOUND    YET   LOST  79 

memorative  services  next  week  ?    You  know  they  have  been 
waiting  for  you." 

"Yes,"  he  replied  quietly;  "'and  they  should  not  have 
delayed  them  so  long.  It  is  very  sad  that  so  many  others 
have  been  added  since — since — " 

"Well,  you  have  not  been  told,  for  we  have  tried  to 
keep  every  depressing  and  disquieting  influence  from  you. 
Dr.  Barnes  said  it  was  very  necessary,  because  you  had  seen 
so  much  that  you  should  try  to  forget.  Ah,  my  friend,  I 
can  never  forget  what  you  suffered  for  me!  Captain 
Nicbol's  funeral  sermon  was  preached  while  you  were  so 
ill.  I  was  not  present — I  could  not  be.  I've  been  to  see 
his  mother  often,  and  she  understands  me.  I  could  not 
have  controlled  my  grief,  and  I  have  a  horror  of  displaying 
my  most  sacred  feelings  in  public.  Father  and  the  people, 
also  wish  you  to  be  present  at  the  general  commemorative 
services,  when  our  Senator  will  deliver  a  eulogy  on  those 
of  our  town  who  have  fallen;  but  I  don't  think  you  should 
go  if  you  feel  that  it  will  have  a  bad  effect  on  you." 

"I  shall  be  present,  Helen.  I  suppose  my  miud  has  been 
weak  like  my  body;  but  the  time  has  come  when  I  must 
take  up  life  again  and  accept  its  conditions  as  others  are 
doing.  You  certainly  are  setting  me  a  good  example.  I 
admit  that  my  illness  has  left  a  peculiar  repugnance  to 
hearing  and  thinking  about  the  war;  it  all  seemed  so  very 
horrible.  But  if  our  brave  men  can  face  the  thing  itself,  I 
should  be  weak  indeed  if  1  could  not  listen  to  a  eulogy  of 
their  deeds. ' ' 

"I  am  coming  to  think,"  resumed  Helen,  thoughtfully, 
"that  the  battle  line  extends  from  Maine  to  the  Gulf,  and 
that  quiet  people  like  you  and  me  are  upon  it  as  truly  as 
the  soldiers  in  the  field.  I  have  thought  that  perhaps  the 
most  merciful  wounds  are  often  those  which  kill  out 
right." 

"I  can  easily  believe  that,"  he  said. 

His  quiet  tone  and  manner  did  not  deceive  her,  and  she 
looked  at  him  wistfully  as  she  resumed,  "But  if  they  do  not 


80  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

kill,  the  pain  must  be  borne  patiently,  even  though  we  are 
in  a  measure  disabled." 

"Yes,  Helen;  and  you  are  disabled  in  your  power  to 
give  me  what  I  can  never  help  giving  you.  I  know  that. 
I  will  not  misjudge  or  presume  upon  your  kindness.  We 
are  too  good  friends  to  affect  any  concealments  from  each 
other." 

"You  have  expressed  my  very  thought.  When  you 
spoke  of  accepting  the  conditions  of  life,  I  hoped  you  had 
in  mind  what  you  have  said — the  conditions  of  life  as  they 
are,  as  we  cannot  help  or  change  them.  We  both  have  got 
to  take  up  life  under  new  conditions." 

"You  have;  not  I,  Helen." 

Tears  rushed  to  her  eyes  as  she  faltered,  "I  would  be 
transparently  false  should  I  affect  not  to  know.  What  1 
wish  you  to  feel  through  the  coming  months  and  years  is 
that  I  cannot — that  I  am  disabled  by  my  wound." 

"I  understand,  Helen.  We  can  go  on  as  we  have  begun. 
You  have  lost,  as  I  have  not,  for  I  have  never  possessed. 
You  will  be  the  greater  sufferer;  and  it  will  be  my  dear 
privilege  to  cheer  and  sustain  you  in  such  ways  as  are  pos 
sible  to  a  simple  friend." 

She  regarded  him  gratefully,  and  for  the  first  time  since 
that  terrible  May  morning  the  semblance  of  a  smile  briefly 
illumined  her  face. 


FOUMD    YET   LOST  81 


CHAPTER   IV 

MARTINE   SEEKS   AN   ANTIDOTE 

IT  can  readily  be  understood  that  Martine  in  his  expedi 
tion  to  the  South  had  not  limited  his  efforts  solely  to 
his  search  for  Captain  Nichol.  Wherever  it  had  been 
within  his  power  he  had  learned  all  that  he  could  of  other 
officers  and  men  who  had  come  from  his  native  region;  and 
his  letters  to  their  relatives  had  been  in  some  instances 
sources  of  unspeakable  comfort.  In  his  visit  to  the  front 
he  had  also  seen  and  conversed  with  his  fellow-townsmen, 
some  of  whom  had  since  perished  or  had  been  wounded. 
As  he  grew  stronger,  Helen  wrote  out  at  his  dictation  all 
that  he  could  remember  concerning  these  interviews;  and 
these  accounts  became  precious  heirlooms  in  many  families. 

On  the  Fourth  of  July  the  commemorative  oration  was 
delivered  by  the  Senator,  who  proved  himself  to  be  more 
than  senator  by  his  deep,  honest  feeling  and  good  taste. 
The  "spread  eagle"  element  was  conspicuously  absent  in 
his  solemn,  dignified,  yet  hopeful  words.  He  gave  to  each 
their  meed  of  praise.  He  grew  eloquent  over  the  enlisted 
men  who  had  so  bravely  done  their  duty  without  the  in 
centive  of  ambition.  When  he  spoke  of  the  honor  reflected 
on  the  village  by  the  heroism  of  Captain  Nichol,  the  hearts 
of  the  people  glowed  with  gratitude  and  pride;  but  thoughts 
of  pity  came  to  all  as  they  remembered  the  girl,  robed  in 
black,  who  sat  with  bowed  head  among  them. 

"1  can  best  bring  my  words  to  a  close,"  said  the  Senator, 
"by  reading  part  of  a  letter  written  by  one  of  your  towns- 


82  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND   OTHER   STORIES 

men,  a  private  in  the  ranks,  yet  expressive  of  feelings  in 
separable  from  our  common  human  nature: 

"DEAB  FATHER — You  know  I  ain't  much  given  to  tine  feelings  or  fine 
words.  Poor  Sam  beat  me  all  holler  in  such  things ;  but  I  want  you  and  all 
the  folks  in  Alton  to  know  that  you've  got  a  regular  soldier  at  home.  0 
course  we  were  all  glad  to  see  Bart  Martine ;  and  we  expected  to  have  a  good- 
natured  laugh  at  his  expense  when  the  shells  began  to  fly.  Soldiers  laugh,  as 
they  eat,  every  chance  they  get,  'cause  they  remember  it  may  be  the  last 
one.  Well,  we  knew  Bart  didn't  know  any  more  about  war  than  a  chicken, 
and  we  expected  to  see  him  get  very  nervous  and  limp  off  to  the  rear  on  the 
double  quick.  He  didn't  scare  worth  a  cent.  When  a  shell  screeched  over 
our  heads,  he  just  waited  till  the  dinged  noise  was  out  of  our  ears  and  then 
went  on  with  his  questions  about  poor  Cap  and  Sam  and  the  others  from  our 
town.  We  were  supporting  a  battery,  and  most  of  us  lying  down.  He  sat 
there  with  us  a  good  hour,  telling  about  the  folks  at  home,  and  how  you  were 
all  following  us  with  your  thoughts  and  prayers,  and  how  you  all  mourned 
with  those  who  lost  friends,  and  were  looking  after  the  children  of  the  killed 
and  wounded.  Fact  is,  before  we  knew  it  we  were  all  on  our  feet  cheering  for 
Alton  and  the  folks  at  home  and  the  little  lame  man,  who  was  just  as  good  a 
soldier  as  any  of  us.  I  tell  you  he  heartened  up  the  boys,  what's  left  of  us. 
I'm  sorry  to  hear  he's  so  sick.  If  he  should  die,  bury  him  with  a  soldier's 
honors.  JAMES  WETHERBT." 

"These  plain,  simple,  unadorned  words,"  concluded  the 
Senator,  "need  no  comment.  Their  force  and  significance 
cannot  be  enhanced  by  anything  I  can  say.  I  do  not  know 
that  I  could  listen  quietly  to  shrieking  and  exploding  shells 
while  I  spoke  words  of  courage  and  good  cheer;  but  I  do 
know  that  J  wish  to  be  among  the  foremost  to  honor  your 
modest,  unassuming  townsman,  who  could  do  all  this  and 
more. ' ' 

Martine  was  visibly  distressed  by  this  unexpected  fea 
ture  in  the  oration  and  the  plaudits  which  followed.  He 
was  too  sad,  too  weak  in  body  and  mind,  and  too  fresh  from 
the  ghastly  battlefield,  not  to  shrink  in  sensitive  pain  from 
personal  and  public  commendation.  He  evaded  his  neigh 
bors  as  far  as  possible  and  limped  hastily  away. 

He  did  not  see  Helen  again  till  the  following  morning, 
lor  her  wound  had  been  opened  afresh,  and  she  spent  the 
remainder  of  the  day  and  evening  in  the  solitude  of  her 


FOUND    YET   LOST  83 

room.  Martine  was  troubled  at  this,  and  thought  she  felt 
as  he  did. 

In  the  morning  she  joined  him  on  the  piazza.  She  was 
pale  from  her  long  sad  vigil,  but  renewed  strength  and 
a  gentle  patience  were  expressed  in  her  thin  face. 

"It's  too  bad,  Helen,"  he  broke  out  in  unwonted  irrita 
tion.  "I  wouldn't  have  gone  if  1  had  known.  It  was  a 
miserable  letting  down  of  all  that  had  gone  before — that 
reference  to  me." 

Now  she  smiled  brightly  as  she  said,  "You  are  the  only 
one  present  who  thought  so.  Has  this  been  worrying  you  ?" 

"Yes,  it  has.  If  the  speaker  had  seen  what  I  saw,  he 
would  have  known  better.  His  words  only  wounded  me." 

4 '  He  judged  you  by  other  men,  Hobart.  His  words  would 
not  have  wounded  very  many.  I'm  glad  I  heard  that  letter — 
that  I  have  learned  what  I  never  could  from  you.  I'm  very 
proud  of  my  friend.  What  silly  creatures  women  are,  any 
way  !  They  want  their  friends  to  be  brave,  yet  dread  the 
consequences  of  their  being  so  beyond  words." 

"Well,"  said  Martine,  a  little  grimly,  "I'm  going  to 
my  office  to-morrow.  I  feel  the  need  of  a  long  course  of 
reading  in  Blackstone. " 

"You  must  help  keep  me  busy  also,"  was  her  reply. 

"I've  thought  about  that;  yes,  a  great  deal.  You  need 
some  wholesome,  natural  interest  that  is  capable  of  becom 
ing  somewhat  absorbing.  Is  it  strange  that  I  should  recom 
mend  one  phase  of  my  hobby,  flowers?  You  know  that 
every  tree,  shrub,  and  plant  on  our  little  place  is  a  sort 
of  a  pet  with  me.  You  are  fond  of  flowers,  but  have  never 
given  much  thought  to  their  care,  leaving  that  to  your  gar 
dener.  Flowers  are  only  half  enjoyed  by  those  who  do  not 
cultivate  them,  nurse,  or  pet  them.  Then  there  is  such  an 
infinite  variety  that  before  you  know  it  your  thoughts  are 
pleasantly  occupied  in  experimenting  with  even  one  family 
of  plants.  It  is  an  interest  which  will  keep  you  much  in 
the  open  air  and  bring  you  close  to  Mother  Nature. ' ' 

The  result  of  this  talk  was  that  the  sad- hearted  girl  first 


84  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

by  resolute  effort  and  then  by  a  growing  fondness  for  the 
tasks,  began  to  take  a  personal  interest  in  the  daily  welfare 
of  her  plants.  Martine  and  her  father  were  always  on  the 
look-out  for  something  new  and  rare;  and  as  winter  ap 
proached,  the  former  had  a  small  conservatory  built  on  the 
sunny  side  of  the  house.  They  also  gave  her  several  caged 
song-birds,  which  soon  learned  to  recognize  and  welcome 
her.  From  one  of  his  clients  Martine  obtained  a  droll- 
looking  dog  that  seemed  to  possess  almost  human  intelli 
gence.  In  the  daily  care  of  living  things  and  dependent 
creatures  that  could  bloom  or  be  joyous  without  jarring 
upon  her  feelings,  as  would  human  mirth  or  gayety,  her 
mind  became  wholesomely  occupied  part  of  each  day;  she 
could  smile  at  objects  which  did  not  know,  which  could 
not  understand. 

Still,  there  was  no  effort  on  her  part  to  escape  sad  mem 
ories  or  the  acts  and  duties  which  revived  them.  A  noble 
monument  had  been  erected  to  Captain  Nichol,  and  one 
of  her  chief  pleasures  was  to  decorate  it  with  the  flowers 
grown  under  her  own  care.  Few  days  passed  on  which  she 
did  not  visit  one  of  the  families  who  were  or  had  been  repre 
sented  at  the  front,  while  Mrs.  Nichol  felt  that  if  she  had 
lost  a  son  she  had  in  a  measure  gained  a  daughter.  As  the 
months  passed  and  winter  was  wellnigh  spent,  the  wise 
gossips  of  the  village  again  began  to  shake  their  heads  and 
remark,  "Helen  Kemble  and  Bart  Martine  are  very  good 
friends;  but  I  guess  that's  all  it  will  amount  to — all,  at  any 
rate,  for  a  long  time. " 

All,  for  all  time,  Helen  had  honestly  thought.  It  might 
easily  have  been  for  all  time  had  another  lover  sought  her, 
or  if  Martine  himself  had  become  a  wooer  and  so  put  her 
on  her  guard.  It  was  his  patient  acceptance  of  what  she 
had  said  could  not  be  helped,  his  self -forgetful  ness,  which 
caused  her  to  remember  his  need — a  need  greatly  increased 
by  a  sad  event.  In  the  breaking  up  of  winter  his  mother 
took  a  heavy  cold  which  ended  in  pneumonia  and  death. 

The  gossips  made  many  plans  for  him  and  indulged  in 


FOUND    YET   LOST  85 

many  surmises  as  to  what  lie  would  do;  but  he  merely  en 
gaged  the  services  of  an  old  woman  as  domestic,  and  lived 
on  quietly  as  before.  Perhaps  he  grew  a  little  morbid  after 
this  bereavement  and  clung  more  closely  to  his  lonely 
hearth. 

This  would  not  be  strange.  Those  who  dwell  among 
shadows  become  ill  at  ease  away  from  them.  Helen  was 
the  first  to  discover  this  tendency,  and  to  note  that  he  was 
not  rallying  as  she  had  hoped  he  would.  He  rarely  sought 
their  house  except  by  invitation,  and  then  often  lapsed  into 
silences  which  he  broke  with  an  evident  effort.  He  never 
uttered  a  word  of  complaint  or  consciously  appealed  for 
sympathy,  but  was  slowly  yielding  to  the  steady  pressure 
of  sadness  which  had  almost  been  his  heritage.  She  would 
have  been  less  than  woman  if,  recalling  the  past  and  know 
ing  so  well  the  unsatisfied  love  in  his  heart,  she  had  not  felt 
for  him  daily  a  larger  and  deeper  commiseration.  When 
the  early  March  winds  rattled  the  casements,  or  drove  the 
sleety  rain  against  the  windows,  she  saw  him  in  fancy  sitting 
alone  brooding,  always  brooding. 

One  day  she  asked  abruptly,  "Hobart,  what  are  you 
thinking  about  so  deeply  when  you  are  looking  at  the  fire  ?" 

A  slow,  deep  flush  came  into  his  face,  and  he  hesitated 
in  his  answer.  At  last  he  said,  "I  fear  I'm  getting  into  a 
bad  mood,  and  think  I  must  do  something  decided.  Well, 
for  one  thing,  the  continuance  of  this  war  weighs  upon  my 
spirit.  Men  are  getting  so  scarce  that  I  believe  they  will 
take  me  in  some  capacity.  Now  that  mother  is  not  here, 
I  think  I  ought  to  go." . 

"Oh,  Hobart,  we  would  miss  you  so!"  she  faltered. 

He  looked  up  with  a  smile.  "Yes,  Helen,  I  think  you 
would — not  many  others,  though.  You  have  become  so 
brave  and  strong  that  you  do  not  need  me  anymore." 

"I  am  not  so  brave  and  strong  as  I  seem.  If  I  were,  how 
did  I  become  so  ?  With  the  tact  and  delicacy  of  a  woman, 
yet  with  the  strength  of  a  man,  you  broke  the  crushing  force 
of  the  first  blow,  and  have  helped  me  ever  since. ' ' 


86  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

"You  see  everything  through  a  very  friendly  medium. 
At  any  rate  I  could  not  have  been  content  a  moment  if  I 
had  not  done  all  in  my  power.  You  do  not  need  me  any 
longer;  you  have  become  a  source  of  strength  to  others. 
I  cannot  help  seeing  crowded  hospital  wards;  and  the 
thought  pursues  me  that  in  one  of  them  I  might  do  some 
thing  to  restore  a  soldier  to  his  place  in  the  field  or  save 
him  for  those  at  home.  I  could  at  least  be  a  hospital  nurse, 
and  I  believe  it  would  be  better  for  me  to  be  doing  some 
such  work." 

"I  believe  it  would  be  better  for  me  also, "  she  answered, 
her  eyes  full  of  tears. 

"No,  Helen — no,  indeed.  You  have  the  higher  mission 
of  healing  the  heart-wounds  which  the  war  is  making  in 
your  own  vicinity.  You  should  not  think  of  leaving  your 
father  and  mother  in  their  old  age,  or  of  filling  their  days 
with  anxiety  which  might  shorten  their  lives." 

"It  will  be  very  hard  for  us  to  let  you  go.  Oh,  I  did  not 
think  I  would  have  to  face  this  also!" 

He  glanced  at  her  hastily,  for  there  was  a  sharp  distress 
in  her  tone,  of  which  she  was  scarcely  conscious  herself. 
Then,  as  if  recollecting  himself,  he  reasoned  gently  and 
earnestly:  "You  were  not  long  in  adopting  the  best  antidote 
for  trouble.  In  comforting  others,  you  have  been  com 
forted.  The  campaign  is  opening  in  Virginia;  and  I  think 
it  would  be  a  good  and  wholesome  thing  for  me  to  be  at 
work  among  the  wounded.  If  I  can  save  one  life,  it  will 
be  such  a  comfort  after  the  war  is  over. ' ' 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  softly;  "the  war  will  be  over  some 
day.  Albert,  in  his  last  letter,  said  the  war  would  cease, 
and  that  happy  days  of  peace  were  coming.  How  they  can 
ever  be  happy  days  to  some  I  scarcely  know;  but  he  seemed 
to  foresee  the  future  when  he  wrote." 

"Helen,  I'm  going.  Perhaps  the  days  of  peace  will  be 
a  little  happier  if  I  go.' 


FOUND    YET   LOST  87 


M 


CHAPTER  V 

SECOND     BLOOM 

ARTINE  carried  out  his  purpose  almost  immediately, 
seeking  the  temporary  and  most  exposed  hospitals 
on  the  extreme  left  of  Grant's  army  before  Peters 
burg.  Indeed,  while  battles  were  still  in  progress  he  would 
make  his  way  to  the  front  and  become  the  surgeon's  tireless 
assistant.  While  thus  engaged,  even  under  the  enemy's  fire, 
he  was  able  to  render  services  to  Jim  Wetherby  which 
probably  saved  the  soldier's  life.  Jim  lost  his  right  arm, 
but  found  a  nurse  who  did  not  let  him  want  for  anything 
till  the  danger  point  following  amputation  had  passed. 
Before  many  weeks  he  was  safe  at  home,  and  from  him 
Helen  learned  more  of  Martine's  quiet  heroism  than  she 
could  ever  gather  from  his  letters.  In  Jim  Wetherby 's 
estimation,  Cap  and  Bart  Martine  were  the  two  heroes  of 
the  war. 

The  latter  had  found  the  right  antidote.  Not  a  moment 
was  left  for  morbid  brooding.  On  every  side  were  sharp 
physical  distress,  deadly  peril  to  life  and  limb,  pathetic 
efforts  to  hold  ground  against  diseases  or  sloughing  wounds. 
In  aiding  such  endeavor,  in  giving  moral  support  and  phys 
ical  care,  Martine  forgot  himself.  Helen's  letters  also  were 
an  increasing  inspiration.  He  could  scarcely  take  up  one 
of  them  and  say,  "Here  her  words  begin  to  have  a  warmer 
tinge  of  feeling;"  but  as  spring  advanced,  imperceptibly 
yet  surely,  in  spite  of  pauses  and  apparent  retrogressions, 
just  so  surely  she  revealed  a  certain  warmth  of  sympathy. 


00  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

He  was  engaged  in  a  work  which  made  it  easy  for  "her  to 
idealize  him.  His  unselfish  effort  to  help  men  live,  to  keep 
bitter  tears  from  the  eyes  of  their  relatives,  appealed  most 
powerfully  to  all  that  was  unselfish  in  her  nature,  and  she 
was  beginning  to  ask,  "If  I  can  make  this  man  happier, 
why  should  I  not  do  so?"  Nichol's  letter  gained  a  new 
meaning  in  the  light  of  events:  "I  do  not  ask  you  to  forget 
me — that  would  be  worse  than  death — but  I  ask  you  to  try 
to  be  happy  and  to  make  others  happy." 

"A  noble,  generous  nature  prompted  those  words,"  she 
now  often  mused.  "How  can  I  obey  their  spirit  better  than 
in  rewarding  the  man  who  not  only  has  done  so  much  for 
me,  but  also  at  every  cost  sought  to  rescue  him  ?" 

In  this  growing  disposition  she  had  no  innate  repugnance 
to  overcome,  nor  the  shrinking  which  can  neither  be  defined 
nor  reasoned  against.  Accustomed  to  see  him  almost  daily 
from  childhood,  conscious  for  years  that  he  was  giving  her 
a  love  that  was  virtually  homage,  she  found  her  heart  grow 
ing  very  compassionate  and  ready  to  yield  the  strong,  quiet 
affection  which  she  believed  might  satisfy  him.  This  had 
come  about  through  no  effort  on  her  part,  from  no  seeking 
on  his,  but  was  the  result  of  circumstances,  the  outgrowth 
of  her  best  and  most  unselfish  feelings. 

But  the  effect  began  to  separate  itself  in  character  from 
its  causes.  All  that  had  gone  before  might  explain  why  she 
was  learning  to  love  him,  and  be  sufficient  reason  for  this 
affection,  but  a  woman's  love,  even  that  quiet  phase  devel 
oping  in  Helen's  heart,  is  not  like  a  man's  conviction,  for 
which  he  can  give  his  clear-cut  reasons.  It  is  a  tenderness 
for  its  object — a  wish  to  serve  and  give  all  in  return  for 
what  it  receives. 

Martine  vaguely  felt  this  change  in  Helen  long  before 
he  understood  it.  He  saw  only  a  warmer  glow  of  sisterly 
affection,  too  high  a  valuation  of  his  self-denying  work, 
and  a  more  generous  attempt  to  give  him  all  the  solace  and 
support  within  her  power. 

One  day  in  July,  when  the  war  was  well  over  and  the 


FOUND    YET  LOST  89 

field  hospitals  long  since  broken  up,  lie  wrote  from  Wash 
ington,  where  he  was  still  pursuing  his  labors: 

"My  work  is  drawing  to  a  close.  Although  I  have  not  accomplished  a  tithe 
of  what  I  wished  to  do,  and  have  seen  so  much  left  undone,  I  am  glad  to  re 
member  that  I  have  alleviated  much  pain  and,  I  think,  saved  some  lives. 
Such  success  as  I  have  had,  dear  Helen,  has  largely  been  due  to  you.  Your 
letters  have  been  like  manna.  You  do  not  know — it  would  be  impossible  for 
you  to  know — the  strength  they  have  given,  the  inspiration  they  have  afforded. 
I  am  naturally  very  weary  and  worn  phj'sically,  and  the  doctors  say  I  must 
soon  have  rest;  but  your  kind  words  have  been  life-giving  to  my  soul.  I  turn 
to  them  from  day  to  day  as  one  would  seek  a  cool,  unfailing  spring.  I  can 
now  accept  life  gratefully  with  the  conditions  which  cannot  be  changed.  How 
fine  is  the  influence  of  a  woman  like  you !  What  deep  springs  of  action  it 
touches !  When  waiting  on  the  sick  and  wounded,  I  try  to  blend  your  womanly 
nature  with  my  coarser  fibre.  Truly,  neither  of  us  has  suffered  in  vain  if  we 
learn  better  to  minister  to  others.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  long  to  see  the 
home  gardens  again ;  and  it  now  seems  that  just  to  watch  you  in  yours  will  be 
unalloyed  happiness." 

Helen  smiled  over  this  letter  with  sweet,  deep  meanings 
in  her  eyes. 

One  August  evening,  as  the  Kemble  family  sat  at  tea, 
he  gave  them  a  joyous  surprise  by  appearing  at  the  door 
and  asking  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice,  "Can  you  put  an  extra 
plate  on  the  table?" 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  gladness  of  her  welcome,  for 
it  was  as  genuine  as  the  bluff  heartiness  of  her  father  and 
the  gentle  solicitude  of  her  mother,  who  exclaimed,  "Oh, 
Hobart,  how  thin  and  pale  you  are !' ' 

"A  few  weeks'  rest  at  home  will  remedy  all  that,"  he 
said.  "The  heat  in  Washington  was  more  trying  than  my 
work." 

"Well,  thank  the  Lord!  you  are  at  home  once  more," 
cried  the  banker.  "I  was  thinking  of  drawing  on  the  au 
thorities  at  Washington  for  a  neighbor  who  had  been  loaned 
much  too  long." 

"Helen,"  said  Martine,  with  pleased  eyes,  "how  well  you 
look !  It  is  a  perfect  delight  to  see  color  in  your  cheeks  once 
more.  They  are  gaining,  too,  their  old  lovely  roundness. 


90  TAKEN    ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

I'm  going  to  say  what  I  think  right  out,  for  I've  been  with 
soldiers  so  long  that  I've  acquired  their  bluntness. " 

"It's  that  garden  work  you  lured  me  into,"  she  ex 
plained.  "I  hope  you  won't  think  your  plants  and  trees 
have  been  neglected." 

"Have  you  been  keeping  my  pets  from  missing  me?" 

"I  guess  they  have  missed  you  least  of  all.  Helen  has 
seen  to  it  that  they  were  cared  for  first,"  said  Mrs.  Kemble, 
emphatically. 

"You  didn't  write  about  that;"  and  he  looked  at  the  girl 
gratefully. 

"Do  you  think  I  could  see  weeds  and  neglect  just  over 
the  fence?"  she  asked,  with  a  piquant  toss  of  her  head. 

"Do  you  think  I  could  believe  that  you  cared  for  my 
garden  only  that  your  eyes  might  not  be  offended  ?" 

"There,  I  only  wished  to  give  you  a  little  surprise.  You 
have  treated  us  to  one  by  walking  in  with  such  delightful 
unexpectedness,  and  so  should  understand.  I'll  show  you 
when  you  are  through  supper." 

"I'm  through  now;"  and  he  rose  with  a  promptness  most 
pleasing  to  her.  His  gladness  in  recognizing  old  and  care 
fully  nurtured  friends,  his  keen,  appreciative  interest  in  the 
new  candidates  for  favor  that  she  had  planted,  rewarded  her 
abundantly. 

"Oh,"  he  exclaimed,  "what  a  heavenly  exchange  from 
the  close,  fetid  air  of  hospital  wards!  Could  the  first  man 
have  been  more  content  in  his  divinely  planted  garden?'" 

She  looked  at  him  shyly  and  thought,  "Perhaps  when 
you  taste  of  the  fruit  of  knowledge  the  old  story  will  have 
a  new  and  better  meaning." 

She  now  regarded  him  with  a  new  and  wistful  interest, 
no  longer  seeing  him  through  the  medium  of  friendship 
only.  His  face,  thin  and  spiritualized,  revealed  his  soul 
without  disguise.  It  was  the  countenance  of  one  who  had 
won  peace  through  the  divine  path  of  ministry — healing 
others,  himself  had  been  healed.  She  saw  also  his  un 
changed,  steadfast  love  shining  like  a  gem  over  which  flows 


FOUND    YET   LOST  91 

a  crystal  current.  Its  ray  was  as  serene  as  it  was  undimmed. 
It  had  taken  its  place  as  an  imperishable  quality  in  his  char 
acter — a  place  which  it  would  retain  without  vicissitude 
unless  some  sign  from  her  called  it  into  immediate  and 
strong  manifestation.  She  was  in  no  haste  to  give  this. 
Time  was  touching  her  kindly;  the  sharp,  cruel  outlines  of 
the  past  were  softening  in  the  distance,  and  she  was  content 
to  remember  that  the  treasure  was  hers  when  she  was  ready 
for  it — a  treasure  more  valued  daily. 

With  exultation  she  saw  him  honored  by  the  entire  com 
munity.  Few  days  passed  without  new  proofs  of  the  hold 
he  had  gained  on  the  deepest  and  best  feelings  of  the  peo 
ple.  She  who  once  had  pitied  now  looked  up  to  him  as  the 
possessor  of  that  manhood  which  the  most  faultless  outward 
semblance  can  only  suggest. 

Love  is  a  magician  at  whose  touch  the  plainest  features 
take  on  new  aspects.  Helen's  face  had  never  been  plain. 
Even  in  its  anguish  it  had  produced  in  beholders  the  pro 
found  commiseration  which  is  more  readily  given  when 
beauty  is  sorrowful.  Now  that  a  new  life  at  heart  was  ex 
pressing  itself,  Martine,  as  well  as  others,  could  not  fail  to 
note  the  subtile  changes.  While  the  dewy  freshness  of  her 
girlish  bloom  was  absent,  the  higher  and  more  womanly 
qualities  were  now  revealing  themselves.  Her  nature  had 
been  deepened  by  her  experiences,  and  the  harmony  of  her 
life  was  all  the  sweeter  for  its  minor  chords. 

To  Martine  she  became  a  wonderful  mystery,  and  he 
almost  worshipped  the  woman  whose  love  he  believed 
buried  in  an  unknown  grave,  but  whose  eyes  were  often 
so  strangely  kind.  He  resumed  his  old  life,  but  no  longer 
brooded  at  home,  when  the  autumn  winds  began  to  blow. 
He  recognized  the  old  danger  and  shunned  it  resolutely. 
If  he  could  not  beguile  his  thoughts  from  Helen,  it  was  but 
a  step  to  her  home,  and  her  eyes  always  shone  with  a  lumi 
nous  welcome.  Unless  detained  by  study  of  the  legal  points 
of  some  case  in  hand,  he  usually  found  his  way  over  to  the 
Kemble  fireside  before  the  evening  passed,  and  his  friends 


92  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

encouraged  him  to  come  when  he  felt  like  it.  The  old 
banker  found  the  young  man  exceedingly  companionable, 
especially  in  his  power  to  discuss  intelligently  the  new 
financial  conditions  into  which  the  country  was  passing. 
Helen  would  smile  to  herself  as  she  watched  the  two  men 
absorbed  in  questions  she  little  understood,  and  observed 
her  mother  nodding  drowsily  over  her  knitting.  The  scene 
was  so  peaceful,  so  cheery,  so  hopeful  against  the  dark 
background  of  the  past,  that  she  could  not  refrain  from 
gratitude.  Her  heart  no  longer  ached  with  despairing 
sorrow,  and  the  anxious,  troubled  expression  had  faded 
out  of  her  parents'  faces. 

"Yes,"  she  would  murmur  softly  to  herself,  "Albert 
was  right;  the  bloody  war  has  ceased,  and  the  happy  days 
of  peace  are  coming.  Heaven  has  blessed  him  and  made 
his  memory  doubly  blessed,  in  that  he  had  the  heart  to 
wish  them  to  be  happy,  although  he  could  not  live  to  see 
them.  Unconsciously  he  took  the  thorns  out  of  the  path 
which  led  to  his  friend  and  mine.  How  richly  father  enjoys 
Hobart's  companionship!  He  will  be  scarcely  less  happy — 
when  he  knows — than  yonder  friend,  who  is  such  a  very 
scrupulous  friend.  Indeed,  how  either  is  ever  going  to 
know  I  scarcely  see,  unless  I  make  a  formal  statement." 

Suddenly  Martine  turned,  and  caught  sight  of  her  ex 
pression. 

"All  I  have  for  your  thoughts!  What  wouldn't  I  give 
to-know  them!" 

Her  face  became  rosier  than  the  firelight  warranted  as 
she  laughed  outright  and  shook  her  head. 

"No  matter,"  he  said;  "I  am  content  to  hear  you  laugh 
like  that." 

"Yes,  yes,"  added  the  banker;  "Helen's  laugh  is  sweeter 
to  me  than  any  music  I  ever  heard.  Thank  God!  we  all  can 
laugh  again.  I  am  getting  old,  and  in  the  course  of  nature 
must  soon  jog  on  to  the  better  country.  When  that  time 
comes,  the  only  music  I  want  to  hear  from  earth  is  good, 
honest  laughter." 


FOUND    YET   LOST  93 

"Now,  papa,  hush  that  talk  right  away,"  cried  Helen, 
with  glistening  eyes. 

"What's  the  matter?"  Mrs.  Kemble  asked,  waking  up. 

"Nothing,  my  dear,  only  it's  time  for  us  old  people  to 
go  to  bed. ' ' 

"Well,  I  own  that  it  would  be  more  becoming  to  sleep 
there  than  to  reflect  so  unfavorably  on  your  conversation. 
Of  late  years  talk  about  money  matters  always  puts  me  to 
sleep. ' ' 

"That  wasn't  the  case,  was  it,  my  dear,  when  we  tried 
to  stretch  a  thousand  so  it  would  reach  from  one  January 
to  another?" 

" I  remember, "  she  replied,  smiling  and  rolling  up  her 
knitting,  "that  we  sometimes  had  to  suspend  specie  pay 
ments.  Ah,  well,  we  were  happy." 

When  left  alone,  it  was  Helen's  turn  to  say,  "Now  your 
thoughts  are  wool-gathering.  You  don't  see  the  fire  when 
you  look  at  it  that  way." 

"No,  I  suppose  not,"  replied  Martine.  "I'll  be  more 
frank  than  you.  Your  mother's  words,  'We  were  happy,' 
left  an  echo  in  my  mind.  How  experience  varies!  It  is 
pleasant  to  think  that  there  are  many  perfectly  normal, 
happy  lives  like  those  of  your  father  and  mother." 

"That's  one  thing  I  like  in  you,  Hobart.  You  are  so 
perfectly  willing  that  others  should  be  happy." 

"Helen,  I  agree  with  your  father.  Your  laugh  was 
music,  the  sweetest  I  ever  heard.  I'm  more  than  willing 
that  you  should  be  happy.  Why  should  you  not  be  ?  I 
have  always  felt  that  what  he  said  was  true — what  he  said 
about  the  right  to  laugh  after  sorrow — but  it  never  seemed 
so  true  before.  Who  could  wish  to  leave  blighting  sorrow 
after  him  ?  W  ho  could  sing  in  heaven  if  he  knew  that  he 
had  left  tears  which  could  not  be  dried  on  earth  ?' ' 

"You  couldn't,"  she  replied  with  bowed  head. 

"Nor  you,  either;  nor  the  brave  man  who  died,  to  whom 
I  only  do  justice  in  believing  that  he  would  only  be  happier 
could  he  hear  your  laugh.  Your  father's  wholesome,  hearty 


94  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

nature  should  teach  us  to  banish  every  morbid  tendency. 
Let  your  heart  grow  as  light  as  it  will,  my  friend.  Your 
natural  impulses  will  not  lead  you  astray.  Good-night." 

"You  feel  sure  of  that?"  she  asked,  giving  him  a  hand 
that  fluttered  in  his,  and  looking  at  him  with  a  soft  fire  in 
her  eyes. 

"Oh,  Helen,  how  distractingly  beautiful  you  are!  You 
are  blooming  again  like  your  Jack-roses  when  the  second 
growth  pushes  them  into  flower.  There;  I  must  go.  If  I 
had  a  stone  in  my  breast  instead  of  a  heart — Good-night. 
I  won't  be  weak  again. " 


FOUND    YET   LOST  95 


CHAPTER    VI 

MORE   THAN   REWARD 

HELEN  KEMBLE'S  character  was  simple  and  direct 
She  was  one  who  lived  vividly  in  the  passing  hour, 
and  had  a  greater  capacity  for  deep  emotions  than 
for  retaining  them.  The  reputation  for  constancy  is  some 
times  won  by  those  incapable  of  strong  convictions.  A 
scratch  upon  a  rock  remains  in  all  its  sharpness,  while  the 
furrow  that  has  gone  deep  into  the  heart  of  a  field  is  even 
tually  almost  hidden  by  a  new  flowering  growth.  The  truth 
was  fully  exemplified  in  Helen's  case;  and  a  willingness  to 
marry  her  lifelong  lover,  prompted  at  first  by  a  spirit  of 
self-sacrifice,  had  become,  under  the  influence  of  daily  com 
panionship,  more  than  mere  assent.  While  gratitude  and 
the  wish  to  see  the  light  of  a  great,  unexpected  joy  come 
into  his  eyes  remained  her  chief  motives,  she  had  learned 
that  she  could  attain  a  happiness  herself,  not  hoped  for 
once,  in  making  him  happy. 

He  was  true  to  his  word,  after  the  interview  described  in 
the  preceding  chapter.  He  did  not  consciously  reveal  the 
unappeased  hunger  of  his  heart,  but  her  intuition  was  never 
at  fault  a  moment. 

One  Indian-summer-like  morning,  about  the  middle  of 
October,  he  went  over  to  her  home  and  said,  "Helen,  what 
do  you  say  to  a  long  day's  outing?  The  foliage  is  at  its 
brightest,  the  air  soft  as  that  of  June.  Why  not  store  up  a 
lot  of  this  sunshine  for  winter  use  ?" 

"Yes,  Helen,  go,"  urged  her  mother.  "I  can  attend  to 
everything. ' ' 


V»0  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

"A  long  day,  did  you  stipulate  ?"  said  the  girl  in  ready 
assent;  "that  means  we  should  take  a  lunch.  I  don't  be 
lieve  you  ever  thought  of  that." 

"We  could  crack  nuts,  rob  apple-orchards,  or  if  driven 
to  extremity,  raid  a  farmhouse." 

"You  have  heard  too  much  from  the  soldiers  about  liv 
ing  off  the  country.  I'd  rather  raid  mamma's  cupboard 
before  we  start.  I'll  be  ready  as  soon  as  you  are." 

He  soon  appeared  in  his  low,  easy  phaeton;  and  she 
joined  him  with  the  presentiment  that  there  might  be  even 
greater  gladness  in  his  face  by  evening  than  it  now  ex 
pressed.  While  on  the  way  to  the  brow  of  a  distant  hill 
which  would  be  their  lunching  place,  they  either  talked 
with  the  freedom  of  old  friends  or  lapsed  into  long  silences. 

At  last  he  asked,  "Isn't  it  a  little  odd  that  when  with 
you  the  sense  of  companionship  is  just  as  strong  when  you 
are  not  talking  ?' ' 

"It's  a  comfort  you  are  so  easily  entertained.  Don't  you 
think  I'm  a  rather  moderate  talker  for  a  woman  ?" 

4 '  Those  that  talk  the  most  are  often  least  entertaining. 
I've  thought  a  good  deal  about  it — the  unconscious  influ 
ence  of  people  on  one  another.  I  don't  mean  influence  in 
any  moral  sense,  but  in  the  power  to  make  one,  comfortable 
or  uncomfortable,  and  to  produce  a  sense  of  restfulness  and 
content  or  to  make  one  ill  at  ease  and  nervously  desirous  of 
escape. ' ' 

"And  you  have  actually  no  nervous  desire  to  escape,  no 
castings  around  in  your  mind  for  an  excuse  to  turn  around 
and  drive  home  ?' ' 

"No  one  could  give  a  surer  answer  to  your  question  than 
yourself.     I've  been  thinking  of  something  pleasanter  than 
my  enjoyment." 
'  "Well?" 

"That  your  expression  has  been  a  very  contented  one 
during  the  last  hour.  I  am  coming  to  believe  that  you  can 
accept  my  friendship  without  effort.  You  women  are  all 
such  mysteries !  One  gets  hold  of  a  clew  now  and  then.  I 


FOUND    YET  LOST  97 

have  fancied  that  if  you  had  started  out  in  the  spirit  of  self- 
sacrifice  that  I  might  have  a  pleasant  time,  you  would  be 
more  conscious  of  your  purpose.  Even  your  tact  might  not 
have  kept  me  from  seeing  that  you  were  exerting  yourself; 
.but  the  very  genius  of  the  day  seems  to  possess  you.  Na 
ture  is  not  exerting  herself  in  the  least.  No  breath  of  air  is 
stirring;  all  storms  are  in  the  past  or  the  future.  With  a 
smile  on  her  face,  she  is  just  resting  in  serene  content,  as 
you  were,  I  hope.  She  is  softening  and  obscuring  every 
thing  distant  by  an  orange  haze,  so  that  the  sunny  present 
may  be  all  the  more  real.  Days  like  these  will  do  you 
good,  especially  if  your  face  and  manner  reveal  that  you 
can  be  as  truly  at  rest  as  Nature." 

"  Yet  what  changes  may  soon  pass  over  the  placid  scene !" 

"Yes,  but  don't  think  of  them." 

"Well,  I  won't — not  now.  Yes,  you  are  becoming  very 
penetrating.  I  am  not  exerting  myself  in  the  least  to  give 
you  a  pleasant  time.  I  am  just  selfishly  and  lazily  content." 

"That  fact  gives  me  so  much  more  than  content  that  it 
makes  me  happy. ' ' 

"Hobart,  you  are  the  most  unselfish  man  I  ever  knew." 

"Nonsense!" 

They  had  reached  their  picnic-ground — the  edge  of  a 
grove  whose  bright- hued  foliage  still  afforded  a  grateful 
shade.  The  horse  was  unharnessed  and.  picketed  so  that 
he  might  have  a  long  range  for  grazing.  Then  Martine 
brought  the  provision  basket  to  the  foot  of  a  great  oak, 
and  sat  down  to  wait  for  Helen,  who  had  wandered  away 
in  search  of  wild  flowers.  At  last  she  came  with  a  handful 
of  late- blooming  closed  gentians. 

"I  thought  these  would  make  an  agreeable  feature  in 
your  lunch." 

"Oh,  you  are  beginning  to  exert  yourself." 

"Yes,  I  have  concluded  to,  a  little.  So  must  you,  to  the 
extent  of  making  a  fire.  The  rest  will  be  woman's  work. 
I  propose  to  drink  your  health  in  a  cup  of  coffee." 

"Ah,  this  is  unalloyed,"  he  cried,  sipping  it  later  on. 

6— ROE— XI 


98  TAKEN    ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

"The  coffee?" 

"Yes,  and  everything.  We  don't  foresee  the  bright  days 
any  more  than  the  dark  ones.  I  did  not  dream  of  this  in 
Virginia." 

"You  are  easily  satisfied.  The  coffee  is  smoky,  the 
lunch  is  cold,  winter  is  coming,  and — " 

"And  I  am  very  happy,"  he  said. 

"It  would  be  a  pity  to  disturb  your  serenity." 

."Nothing  shall  disturb  it  to-day.  Peace  is  one  of  the 
rarest  experiences  in  this  world.  I  mean  only  to  remember 
that  our  armies  are  disbanded  and  that  you  are  at  rest,  like 
Nature." 

She  had  brought  a  little  book  of  autumn  poems,  and 
after  lunch  read  to  him  for  an  hour,  he  listening  with  the 
same  expression  of  quiet  satisfaction.  As  the  day  declined, 
she  shivered  slightly  in  the  shade.  He  immediately  arose 
and  put  a  shawl  around  her. 

"You  are  always  shielding  me,"  she  said  gently. 

"One  can  do  so  little  of  that  kind  of  thing,"  he  replied, 
"not  much  more  than  show  intent." 

"Now  you  do  yourself  injustice."  After  a  moment's 
hesitancy  she  added,  "I  am  not  quite  in  your  mood  to-day, 
and  even  Nature,  as  your  ally,  cannot  make  me  forget  or 
even  wish  to  forget." 

"I  do  not  wish  you  to  forget,  but  merely  cease  to  remem 
ber  for  a  little  while.  You  say  Nature  is  my  ally.  Listen: 
already  the  wind  is  beginning  to  sigh  in  the  branches  over 
head.  The  sound  is  low  and  mournful,  as  if  full  of  regret 
for  the  past  and  forebodings  for  the  future.  There  is  a 
change  coming.  All  that  I  wished  or  could  expect  in  you 
was  that  this  serene,  quiet  day  would  give  you  a  respite — 
that  complete  repose  in  which  the  wounded  spirit  is  more 
rapidly  healed  and  strengthened  for  the  future." 

"Have  you  been  strengthened?  Have  you  no  fears  for 
the  future?" 

"No  fears,  Helen.  My  life  is  strong  in  its  negation. 
The  man  who  is  agitated  by  hopes  and  fears,  who  is"  doomed 


FOUND    YET   LOST  99 

to  disappointments,  is  the  one  who  has  not  recognized 
his  limitations,  who  has  not  accepted  well-defined  condi 
tions." 

"Hobart,  I'm  going  to  put  you  on  your  honor  now.  Ee- 
member,  and  do  not  answer  hastily, ' '  and  her  gaze  into  his 
face  was  searching.  Although  quiet  and  perfectly  self- 
controlled,  the  rich  color  mounted  to  her  very  brow. 

"Well,  Helen,"  he  asked  wonderingly. 

"Imagine  it  possible,"  she  continued  with  the  same  ear 
nest  gaze,  "that  you  were  a  woman  who  has  loved  as  I  have 
loved,  and  lost  as  I  have.  The  circumstances  are  all  known, 
and  you  have  only  to  recall  them.  If  a  man  had  loved  you 
as  you  have  loved  me — " 

"But,  Helen,  can  you  not  believe  in  a  love  so  strong 
that  it  does  not  ask — ' ' 

By  a  gesture  she  checked  him  and  repeated,  "But  if  a 
man  had  loved  you  as  you  have  loved  me — remember  now, 
on  your  honor — would  you  permit  him  to  love  with  no  bet 
ter  reward  than  the  consciousness  of  being  a  solace,  a  help, 
a  sort  of  buffer  between  you  and  the  ills  of  life  ?" 

"But,  Helen,  I  am  more  than  that:  I  am  your  friend." 

"Indeed  you  are,  the  best  a  woman  ever  had,  or  I  could 
not  speak  as  I  am  doing.  Yet  what  I  say  is  true.  From 
the  first  it  has  been  your  sleepless  aim  to  stand  between  me 
and  trouble.  What  have  1  ever  done  for  you  ?" 

"In  giving  me  your  friendship — " 

Again  she  interrupted  him,  saying,  "That  virtually 
means  giving  you  the  chance  for  continued  self-sacrifice. 
Any  man  or  woman  in  the  land  would  give  you  friendship 
on  such  terms,  your  terms  with  me.  But  you  do  not  answer 
my  question ;  yet  you  have  answered  it  over  and  over  again. 
Were  you  in  my  place  with  your  unselfish  nature,  you  could 
not  take  so  very  much  without  an  inevitable  longing  to 
return  all  in  your  power." 

He  was  deeply  agitated.  Burying  his  face  in  his  hands, 
he  said  hoarsely,  "I  must  not  look  at  you,  or  my  duty  may 
be  too  bard.  Ah,  you  are  banishing  peace  and  serenity  now 


100  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

with  a  vengeance !  I  recognize  your  motive — whither  your 
thoughts  are  tending.  Your  conscience,  your  pity,  your  ex 
aggerated  gratitude  are  driving  you  to  contemplate  a  self- 
sacrifice  compared  with  which  mine  is  as  nothing.  Yet 
the  possibility  of  what  you  suggest  is  so  sweet,  so — oh,  it  is 
like  the  reward  of  heaven  for  a  brief  life!"  Then  he  bowed 
his  head  lower  and  added  slowly,  as  if  the  words  were  forced 
from  him,  "No,  Helen,  you  shall  not  reward  me.  I  cannot 
take  as  pay,  or  'return,'  as  you  express  it,  the  reward  that 
you  are  meditating.  I  must  not  remember  in  after  years 
that  my  efforts  in  your  behalf  piled  up  such  a  burdensome 
sense  of  obligation  that  there  was  but  one  escape  from  it." 

She  came  to  his  side,  and  removing  his  hands  from  his 
face,  retained  one  of  them  as  she  said,  gently,  "Hobart,  I 
am  no  longer  a  shy  girl.  I  have  suffered  too  deeply,  I  have 
learned  too  thoroughly  how  life  may  be  robbed  of  happi 
ness,  and  for  a  time,  almost  of  hope,  not  to  see  the  folly  of 
letting  the  years  slip  away,  unproductive  of  half  what  they 
might  yield  to  you  and  me.  I  understand  you;  you  do  not 
understand  me,  probably  because  your  ideal  is  too  high. 
You  employed  an  illustration  in  the  narrowest  meaning. 
Is  heaven  given  only  as  a  reward  ?  Is  not  every  true  gift 
an  expression  of  something  back  of  the  gift,  more  than  the 
gift?" 

"Helen!" 

"Yes,  Hobart,  in  my  wish  to  make  you  happier  I  am  not 
bent  on  unredeemed  self-sacrifice.  You  have  been  the  most 
skilful  of  wooers." 

"And  you  are  the  divinest  of  mysteries.  How  have  I 
wooed  you?" 

"By  not  wooing  at  all,  by  taking  a  course  which  com 
pelled  my  heart  to  plead  your  cause,  by  giving  unselfish 
devotion  so  unstintedly  that  like  the  rain  and  dew  of  heaven, 
it  has  fostered  a  new  life  in  my  heart,  different  from  the  old, 
yet  sweet,  real,  and  precious.  I  have  learned  that  I  can  be 
happier  in  making  you  happy.  Oh,  I  shall  be  no  martyr. 
Arn  I  inconstant  because  time  and  your  ministry  have 


FOUND    YET   LOST  101 

healed  the  old  wound — because  the  steady  warmth  and  glow 
of  your  love  has  kindled  mine  ?" 

He  regarded  her  with  a  gaze  so  rapt,  so  reverent,  so  ex 
pressive  of  immeasurable  gratitude  that  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears.  "I  think  you  do  understand  me,"  she  whispered. 

He  kissed  her  hand  in  homage  as  he  replied,  ' '  A  joy  like 
this  is  almost  as  hard  to  comprehend  at  first  as  an  equally 
great  sorrow.  My  garden  teaches  me  to  understand  you. 
A  perfect  flower-stalk  is  suddenly  and  rudely  broken. 
Instead  of  dying,  it  eventually  sends  out  a  little  side-shoot 
which  gives  what  bloom  it  can." 

"And  you  will  be  content  with  what  it  can  give  ?" 

"I  shall  be  glad  with  a  happiness  which  almost  terrifies 
me.  Only  God  knows  how  I  have  longed  for  this." 

That  evening  the  old  banker  scarcely  ceased  rubbing  his 
hands  in  general  felicitation,  while  practical,  housewifely 
Mrs.  Kemble  already  began  to  plan  what  she  intended  to 
do  toward  establishing  Helen  in  the  adjoining  cottage. 

Now  that  Martine  believed  his  great  happiness  possible, 
he  was  eager  for  its  consummation.  At  his  request  the  1st 
of  December  was  named  as  the  wedding  day.  "The  best 
that  a  fireside  and  evening  lamp  ever  suggested  will  then 
come  true  to  me,"  he  urged.  "Since  this  can  be,  life  is  too 
short  that  it  should  not  be  soon." 

Helen  readily  yielded.  Indeed,  they  were  all  so  ab 
sorbed  in  planning  for  his  happiness  as  to  be  oblivious  of 
the  rising  storm.  When  at  last  the  girl  went  to  her  room, 
the  wind  sighed  and  wailed  so  mournfully  around  the  house 
as  to  produce  a  feeling  of  depression  and  foreboding. 


102  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 


CHAPTER  VII 

YANKEE      BLANK 

THE  wild  night  storm  which  followed  the  most  memor 
able  day  of  his  life  had  no  power  to  depress  Mar- 
tine.  In  the  wavy  flames  and  glowing  coals  of  his 
open  fire  he  saw  heavenly  pictures  of  the  future.  He  drew 
his  mother's  low  chair  to  the  hearth,  and  his  kindled  fancy 
placed  Helen  in  it.  Memory  could  so  reproduce  her  lovely 
and  familiar  features  that  her  presence  became  almost  a 
reality.  In  a  sense  he  watched  her  changing  expression  and 
heard  her  low,  mellow  tones.  The  truth  that  both  would 
express  an  affection  akin  to  his  own  grew  upon  his  con 
sciousness  like  the  incoming  of  a  sun-lighted  tide.  The 
darkness  and  storm  without  became  only  the  background 
of  his  pictures,  enhancing  every  prophetic  representation. 
The  night  passed  in  ecstatic  waking  dreams  of  all  that  the 
word  "home"  suggests  when  a  woman,  loved  as  he  loved 
Helen,  was  its  architect. 

The  days  and  weeks  which  followed  were  filled  with 
divine  enchantment;  the  prosaic  world  was  transfigured; 
the  intricacies  of  the  law  were  luminous  with  the  sheen  of 
gold,  becoming  the  quartz  veins  from  which  he  would  mine 
wealth  for  Helen;  the  plants  in  his  little  rose- house  were 
cared  for  with  caressing  tenderness  because  they  gave  buds 
which  would  be  worn  over  the  heart  now  throbbing  for  him. 
Never  did  mortal  know  such  unalloyed  happiness  as  blessed 
Martine,  as  he  became  daily  more  convinced  that  Helen  was 
not  giving  herself  to  him  merely  from  the  promptings  of 
compassion. 


FOUND    YET    LOST  103 

At  times,  when  she  did  not  know  he  was  listening,  he 
heard  her  low,  sweet  laugh;  and  it  had  a  joyous  ring  and 
melody  which  repeated  itself  like  a  haunting  refrain  of 
music.  He  would  say  smilingly,  "It  is  circumstantial  evi 
dence,  equivalent  to  direct  proof." 

Helen  arid  her  mother  almost  took  possession  of  his  house 
while  he  was  absent  at  his  office,  refurnishing  and  trans 
forming  it,  yet  retaining  with  reverent  memory  what  was 
essentially  associated  with  Mrs.  Martine.  The  changing 
aspects  of  the  house  did  not  banish  the  old  sense  of  famil 
iarity,  but  were  rather  like  the  apple-tree  in  the  corner  of 
the  garden  when  budding  into  new  foliage  and  flower.  The 
banker's  purse  was  ever  open  for  all  this  renovation,  but 
Martine  jealously  persisted  in  his  resolve  to  meet  every 
expense  himself.  Witnessing  his  gladness  and  satisfaction, 
they  let  him  have  his  way,  he  meanwhile  exulting  over 
Helen's  absorbed  interest  in  the  adornment  of  her  future 
home. 

The  entire  village  had  a  friendly  concern  in  the  approach 
ing  wedding;  and  the  aged  gossips  never  tired  of  saying,  "I 
told  you  so,"  believing  that  they  understood  precisely  how 
it  had  all  come  about.  Even  Mrs.  Nichol  aquiesced  with 
a  few  deep  sighs,  assuring  herself,  "I  suppose  it's  natural. 
I'd  rather  it  was  Bart  Martine  than  anybody  else." 

A  few  days  before  the  1st  of  December,  Martine  received 
a  telegram  from  an  aged  uncle  residing  in  a  distant  State. 
It  conveyed  a  request  hard  to  comply  with,  yet  he  did  not 
see  how  it  could  be  evaded.  The  despatch  was  delivered 
in  the  evening  while  he  was  at  the  Kembles',  and  its  effect 
upon  the  little  group  was  like  a  bolt  out  of  a  clear  sky. 
It  ran: 

"Your  cousin  dangerously  ill  at Hospital,  Washington.     Go  to  him  at 

once,  if  possible,  and  telegraph  me  to  come,  if  necessary." 

Hobart  explained  that  this  cousin  Tiad  remained  in  the 
army  from  choice,  and  that  his  father,  old  and  feeble,  natu 
rally  shrank  from  a  journey  to  which  he  was  scarcely  equal. 


104  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

"My  hospital  experience,"  he  concluded,  "leads  him  to 
think  that  I  am  just  the  one  to  go,  especially  as  I  can  get 
there  much  sooner  than  he.  I  suppose  he  is  right.  Indeed, 
I  do  not  know  of  any  one  else  whom  he  could  call  upon. 
It  certainly  is  a  very  painful  duty  at  this  time." 

"I  can't  endure  to  think  of  it,"  Helen  exclaimed. 

"It's  a  clear  question  of  conscience,  Helen,"  he  replied 
gently.  "Many  years  have  passed  since  I  saw  this  cousin, 
yet  he,  and  still  more  strongly  his  father,  have  the  claims 
of  kinship.  If  anything  should  happen  which  my  presence 
could  avert,  you  know  we  should  both  feel  bad.  It  would 
be  a  cloud  upon  our  happiness.  If  this  request  had  come 
before  you  had  changed  everything  for  me,  you  know  I 
would  have  gone  without  a  moment's  hesitation.  Very 
gratitude  should  make  me  more  ready  for  duty;"  yet  he 
signed  deeply. 

"But  it  may  delay  the  wedding,  for  which  the  invitations 
have  gone  out,"  protested  Mrs.  Kemble. 

"Possibly  it  may,  if  my  cousin's  life  is  in  danger." 
Then,  brightening  up,  he  added:  "Perhaps  I  shall  find  that 
I  can  leave  him  in  good  care  for  a  short  time,  and  then  we 
can  go  to  Washington  on  our  wedding  trip.  I  would  like 
to  gain  associations  with  that  city  different  from  those  I  now 
have." 

"Come  now,"  said  the  banker,  hopefully,  "if  we  must 
face  this  thing,  we  must  The  probabilities  are  that  it  will 
turn  out  as  Hobart  says.  At  worst  it  can  only  be  a  sad 
interruption  and  episode.  Hobart  will  be  better  satisfied  in 
the  end  if  he  does  what  he  now  thinks  his  duty." 

"Yours  is  the  right  view,"  assented  the  young  man, 
firmly.  "I  shall  take  the  midnight  train,  and  telegraph  as 
soon  as  I  have  seen  my  cousin  and  the  hospital  surgeon." 

He  went  home  and  hastily  made  his  preparations;  then, 
with  valise  in  hand,  returnd  to  the  Kembles'.  The  old  peo 
ple  bade  him  Godspeed  on  his  journey,  and  considerately 
left  him  with  his  affianced. 

"Hobart,"  Helen  entreated,  as  they  were  parting,  "be 


FOUND    YET  LOST  106 

more  than  ordinarily  prudent.  Do  not  take  any  risks,  even 
the  most  trivial,  unless  you  feel  you  must.  Perhaps  I'm 
weak  and  foolish,  but  I'm  possessed  with  a  strange,  nervous 
dread.  This  sudden  call  of  duty — for  so  I  suppose  I  must 
look  upon  it — seems  so  inopportune;"  and  she  hid  her  tears 
on  his  shoulder. 

"You  are  taking  it  much  too  seriously,  darling, ' '  he  said, 
gently  drawing  her  closer  to  him. 

"Yes,  my  reason  tells  me  that  I  am.  You  are  only  going 
on  a  brief  journej,  facing  nothing  that  can  be  called  danger. 
Yet  I  speak  as  I  feel — I  cannot  help  feeling.  Give  me  glad 
reassurance  by  returning  quickly  and  safely.  Then  here 
after  I  will  laugh  at  forebodings." 

"There,  you  need  not  wait  till  I  reach  Washington. 
You  shall  hear  from  me  in  the  morning,  and  I  will  also 
telegraph  when  I  have  opportunity  on  my  journey." 

"Please  do  so,  and  remember  that  I  could  not  endure  to 
have  my  life  impoverished  again." 

Late  the  following  evening,  Martine  inquired  his  way  to 
the  bedside  of  his  cousin,  and  was  glad  indeed  to  find  him 
convalescent.  His  own  experienced  eyes,  together  with  the 
statement  of  the  sick  man  and  wardmaster,  convinced  him 
that  the  danger  point  was  well  passed.  In  immense  relief 
of  mind  he  said  cheerily,  "I  will  watch  to-night";  and  so 
it  was  arranged. 

His  cousin,  soothed  and  hushed  in  his  desire  to  talk, 
soon  dropped  into  quiet  slumber,  while  Martine's  thronging 
thoughts  banished  the  sense  of  drowsiness.  A  shaded  lamp 
burned  near,  making  a  circle  of  light  and  leaving  the  rest 
of  the  ward  dim  and  shadowy.  The  scene  was  very  familiar, 
and  it  was  an  easy  effort  for  his  imagination  to  place  in  the 
adjoining  cots  the  patients  with  whom,  months  before,  he 
had  fought  the  winning  or  losing  battle  of  life.  While 
memory  sometimes  went  back  compassionately  to  those 
sufferers,  his  thoughts  dwelt  chiefly  upon  the  near  future, 
with  its  certainty  of  happiness — a  happiness  doubly  appre 
ciated  because  his  renewed  experience  in  the  old  conditions 


106  TAKEN    ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

of  his  life  made  the  home  which  awaited  him  all  the  sweeter 
from  contrast.  He  could  scarcely  believe  that  he  was  the 
same  man  who  in  places  like  this  had  sought  to  forget 
the  pain  of  bereavement  and  of  denial  of  his  dearest  wish — 
he  who  in  the  morning  would  telegraph  Helen  that  the 
wedding  need  not  even  be  postponed,  or  any  change  made 
in  their  plans. 

The  hours  were  passing  almost  unnoted,  when  a  patient 
beyond  the  circle  of  light  feebly  called  for  water.  Almost 
mechanically  Hobart  rose  to  get  it,  when  a  man  wearing 
carpet  slippers  and  an  old  dressing-gown  shuffled  noiselessly 
into  view. 

"Captain  Nichol!"  gasped  Martine,  sinking  back,  faint 
and  trembling,  in  his  chair. 

The  man  paid  no  attention,  but  passed  through  the  circle 
of  light  to  the  patient,  gave  him  a  drink,  and  turned.  Martine 
stared  with  the  paralysis  of  one  looking  upon  an  apparition. 

When  the  figure  was  opposite  to  him,  he  again  ejaculated 
hoarsely,  "Captain  Nichol!" 

The  form  in  slippers  and  gray  ghostly  dressing-gown 
turned  sleepy  eyes  upon  him  without  the  slightest  sign  of 
recognition,  passed  on,  and  disappeared  among  the  shadows 
near  the  wardm aster's  room. 

A  blending  of  relief  and  fearful  doubt  agitated  Martine. 
He  knew  he  had  been  wide  awake  and  in  the  possession  of 
every. faculty — that  his  imagination  had  been  playing  him 
no  tricks.  He  was  not  even  thinking  of  Nichol  at  the  time; 
yet  the  impression  that  he  had  looked  upon  and  spoken  to 
his  old  schoolmate,  to  Helen's  dead  lover,  had  been  as  strong 
as  it  was  instantaneous.  When  the  man  had  turned,  there 
had  been  an  unnatural  expression,  which  in  a  measure 
dispelled  the  illusion.  After  a  moment  of  thought  which 
scorched  his  brain,  he  rose  and  followed  the  man's  steps, 
and  was  in  time  to  see  him  rolling  himself  in  his  blanket  on 
the  cot  nearest  the  door.  From  violent  agitation,  Martine 
unconsciously  shook  the  figure  outlined  in  the  blanket 
roughly,  as  he  asked,  "What's  your  name?" 


FOUND    YET   LOST  107 

"Yankee  Blank,  doggone  yer!  Kyant  you  wake  a  feller 
'thout  yankin'  'im  out  o'  baid?  What  yer  want?" 

"Great  God!"  muttered  Hobart,  tottering  back  to  his 
seat  beside  his  sleeping  cousin,  "was  there  ever  such  a  hor 
rible,  mocking  suggestion  of  one  man  in  another  ?  Yankee 
Blank — what  a  name!  Southern  accent  and  vernacular,  yet 
N  ichol' s  voice!  Such  similarity  combined  with  such  dis 
similarity  is  like  a  nightmare.  Of  course  it's  not  Nichol. 
He  was  killed  nearly  two  .years  ago.  I'd  be  more  than 
human  if  I  could  wish  him  back  now;  but  never  in  my  life 
have  I  been  so  shocked  and  startled.  This  apparition  must 
account  for  itself  in  the  morning." 

But  he  could  not  wait  till  morning;  he  could  not  control 
himself  five  minutes.  He  felt  that  he  must  banish  that  hor 
rible  semblance  of  Nichol  from  his  mind  by  convincing 
himself  of  its  absurdity. 

He  waited  a  few  moments  in  order  to  compose  his  nerves, 
and  then  returned.  The  man  had  evidently  gone  to  sleep. 

"What  a  fool  I  am!"  Martine  again  muttered.  "Let  the 
poor  fellow  sleep.  The  fact  that  be  doesn't  know  me  is  proof 
enough.  The  idea  of  wanting  any  proof!  I  caa  investigate 
his  case  in  the  morning,  and,  no  doubt,  in  broad  light  that 
astonishing  suggestion  of  Nichol  will  disappear. 

He  was  about  to  turn  away  when  the  patient  who  had 
called  for  water  groaned  slightly.  As  if  his  ears  were  as 
sensitive  to  such  sounds  as  those  of  a  mother  who  hears  her 
child  even  when  it  stirs,  the  man  arose.  Seeing  Martine 
standing  by  him,  he  asked  in  slight  irritation,  "What  yer 
want?  Why  kyant  yer  say  what  yer  want  en  have  done 
'th  it?  Lemme  'tend  ter  that  feller  yander  firs'.  We  uns 
don't  want  no  mo'  stiffs;"  and  he  shuffled  with  a  peculiar, 
noiseless  tread  to  the  patient  whose  case  seemed  on  his 
mind.  Martine  followed,  his  very  hair  rising  at  the  well- 
remembered  tones,  and  the  mysterious  principle  of  identity 
again  revealed  within  the  circle  of  light. 

"This  is  simply  horrible!"  he  groaned  inwardly,  "and 
I  must  have  that  man  account  for  himself  instantly." 


108  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

"Now  I'll  'tend  ter  yer,  but  yer  mout  let  a  feller  sleep 
when  he  kin." 

"Don't  you  know  me?"  faltered  Martine,  overpowered. 

"Naw." 

"Please  tell  me  your  real  name,  not  your  nickname." 

"Ain'  got  no  name  'cept  Yankee  Blank.  What's  the 
matter  with  yer,  anyhow  ?" 

"Didn't  you  ever  hear  of  Captain  Nichol  ?" 

"Reckon  not.  Mout  have.  I've  nussed  mo'  cap'ins 
than  1  kin  reckerlect. " 

"Are  you  a  hospital  nurse?" 

"Sorter  'spect  I  am.  That's  w^at  I  does,  anyhow. 
Have  you  anything  agin  it?  Don't  yer  come  'ferin'  round 
with  me  less  yer  a  doctor,  astin'  no  end  o'  questions.  Air 
you  a  new  doctor  ?" 

"My  name  is  Hobart  Martine,"  the  speaker  forced  him 
self  to  say,  expecting  fearfully  a  sign  of  recognition,  for  the 
impression  that  it  was  Nichol  grew  upon  him  every  moment, 
in  spite  of  apparent  proof  to  the  contrary. 

"Hump!  Hob't  Ma'tine.  Never  yeared  on  yer.  Ef  yer 
want  ter  chin  mo'  in  the  mawnin',  I'll  be  yere." 

"Wait  a  moment,  Yan — " 

"Yankee  Blank,  I  tole  yer." 

"Well,  here's  a  dollar  for  the  trouble  I'm  making  you," 
and  Martine's  face  flushed  with  shame  at  the  act,  so  divided 
was  his  impression  about  the  man. 

Yankee  Blank  took  the  money  readily,  grinned,  and 
said,  "Now  I'll  chin  till  mawnin'  ef  yer  wants  hit." 

"I  won't  keep  you  long.  You  remind  me  of — of — well, 
of  Captain  Nichol." 

"He  must  'a'  been  a  cur'ous  chap.  Folks  all  say  I'm  a 
cur'ous  chap." 

"Won't  you  please  tell  me  all  that  you  can  remember 
about  yourself  ?" 

"  'Tain't  much.  Short  hoss  soon  curried.  Allus  ben  in 
hospitals.  Had  high  ole  jinks  with  a  wound  on  my  haid. 
Piece  o'  shell,  they  sez,  cut  me  yere,"  and  he  pointed  to 


FOUND    YET   LOST  109 

a  scar  across  his  forehead.  "That's  what  they  tole  me. 
Lor' !  I  couldn't  mek  much  out  o'  the' gibberish  J  firs'  year, 
en  they  sez  I  talked  gibberish  too.  But  i  soon  got  the  hang 
o'  the  talk  in  the  hospital.  Well,  ez  I  wuz  sayin',  I've  allus 
been  in  hospitals  firs'  one,  then  anuther.  I  got  well,  en  the 
sojers  call  me  Yankee  Blank  en  set  me  waitin'  on  sick  uns 
en  the  wounded.  That's  what  I'm  a-doin'  now." 

"You  were  in  Southern  hospitals?" 

"I  reckon.    They  called  the  place  Eichman." 

"Why  did  you  come  here?" 

"Kaze  1  wuz  bro't  yere.     They  said  I  was  'changed." 

"Exchanged,  wasn't  it?" 

"Beckon  it  was.  Anyhow  I  wuz  bro't  yere  with  a  lot  o' 
sick  fellers.  I  wuzn't  sick.  For  a  long  time  the  doctors 
kep'  a-pesterin'  me  with  questions,  but  they  lemme  'lone 
now.  I  'spected  you  wuz  a  new  doctor,  en  at  it  agin." 

"Don't  you  remember  the  village  of  Alton?" 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

"Don't  you — "  and  Martine's  voice  grew  husky — "don't 
you  remember  Helen  Kemble?" 

"A  woman?" 

"Yes." 

"Never  yeared  on  her.  I  only  reckerlect  people  I've 
seen  in  hospitals.  Women  come  foolin'  roun'  some  days, 
but  Lor' !  I  kin  beat  any  on  'em  teckin*  keer  o'  the  patients; 
en  wen  they  dies,  I  kin  lay  'em  out.  You  ast  the  ward  master 
ef  I  kant  lay  out  a  stiff  with  the  best  o1  'em." 

"That  will  do.     You  can  go  to  sleep  now." 

"All  right,  Doc.  I  call  everybody  doc  who  asts  sech 
a  lot  o'  questions."  He  shuffled  to  his  cot  and  was  soon 
asleep. 


110  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 


M 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"HOW  CAN  i?" 

ARTINE  sank  into  his  chair  again.  Although  the 
conversation  had  been  carried  on  in  low  tones,  it 
was  the  voice  of  Nichol  that  he  had  heard.  Closer 
inspection  of  the  slightly  disfigured  face  proved  that,  apart 
from  the  scar  on  the  forehead,  it  was  the  countenance  of 
Nichol.  A  possible  solution  of  the  mystery  was  beginning 
to  force  itself  in  Hobart's  reluctant  mind.  When  Nichol 
had  fallen  in  the  Wilderness,  the  shock  of  his  injury  had 
rendered  him  senseless  and  caused  him  to  appear  dead  to 
the  hasty  scrutiny  of  Sam  and  Jim  Wetherby.  They  were 
terribly  excited  and  had  no  time  for  close  examination. 
Nich  .1  might  have  revived,  have  been  gathered  up  with 
the  Confederate  wounded,  and  sent  to  Richmond.  There 
was  dire  and  tremendous  confusion  at  that  period,  when 
within  the  space  of  two  or  three  days  tens  of  thousands  were 
either  killed  or  disabled.  In  a  Southern  hospital  Nichol 
might  have  recovered  physical  health  while,  from  injury  to 
the  brain,  suffering  complete  eclipse  of  memory.  In  this 
case  he  would  have  to  begin  life  anew,  like  a  child,  and  so 
would  pick  up  the  vernacular  and  bearing  of  the  enlisted 
men  with  whom  he  would  chiefly  associate. 

Because  he  remembered  nothing  and  know  nothing,  he 
may  at  first  have  been  tolerated  as  a  "cur'ous  chap,"  then 
employed  as  he  had  explained.  He  could  take  the  place  of 
a  better  man  where  men  were  greatly  needed. 

This  theory  could  solve  the  problem;  and  Martine's  hos 
pital  experience  prepared  his  mind  to  understand  what 


FOUND    YET  LOST  111 

would  be  a  hopeless  mystery  to  many.  He  was  so  fearfully 
excited  that  he  could  not  remain  in  the  ward.  The  very 
proximity  to  this  strange  being,  who  had  virtually  risen 
from  the  dead  and  appeared  to  him  of  all  others,  was  a  sort 
of  torture  in  itself. 

What  effect  would  this  discovery  have  on  his  relations 
to  Helen?  He  dared  not  think;  yet  he  must  think.  Al 
ready  the  temptation  of  his  life  was  forming  in  his  mind. 
His  cousin  was  sleeping;  and  with  a  wild  impatience  to 
escape,  to  get  away  from  all  his  kind,  he  stole  noiselessly 
out  into  the  midnight  and  deserted  streets.  On,  on  he  went, 
limping  he  knew  not,  cared  not  where,  for  his  passion  and 
mental  agony  drove  him  hither  and  thither  like  a  leaf  before 
a  fitful  gale. 

"No  one  knows  of  this,"  he  groaned.  "I  can  still  return 
and  marry  Helen.  But  oh,  what  a  secret  to  carry!" 

Then  his  heart  pleaded.  "This  is  not  the  lover  she  lost 
— only  a  horrible,  mocking  semblance.  He  has  lost  his 
own  identity;  he  does  not  even  know  himself — would  not 
know  her.  Ah!  I'm  not  sure  of  that.  1  would  be  dead 
indeed  if  her  dear  features  did  not  kindle  my  eyes  in  recog 
nition.  It  may  be  that  the  sight  of  her  face  is  the  one  thing 
essential  to  restore  him.  I  feel  this  would  be  true  were  it 
my  case.  But  how  can  I  give  her  up  now  ?  flow  can  ? — 
how  can  I  ?  Oh,  this  terrible  journey !  No  wonder  Helen 
had  forebodings.  She  loves  me;  she  is  mine.  No  one  else 
has  so  good  a  right.  We  were  to  be  married  only  a  few 
hours  hence.  Then  she  whom  I've  loved  from  childhood 
would  make  my  home  a  heaven  on  earth.  And  yet — and 
yet — "  Even  in  the  darkness  he  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands,  shuddered,  moaned,  writhed,  and  grated  his  teeth 
in  the  torment  of  the  conflict. 

Hour  after  hour  he  wavered,  now  on  the  point  of  yield 
ing,  then  stung  by  conscience  into  desperate  uncertainty. 
The  night  was  cold,  the  howling  wind  would  have  chilled 
him  at  another  time,  but  during  his  struggle  great  drops  of 
sweat  often  poured  from  his  face.  Only  the  eye  of  God  saw 


112  AKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

that  battle,  the  hardest  that  was  fought  and  won  during  the 
war. 

At  last,  when  well  out  of  the  city,  he  lifted  his  agonized 
eyes  and  saw  the  beautiful  hues  of  morning  tingeing  the 
east.  Unconsciously,  he  repeated  the  sublime,  creative 
words,  "Let  there  be  light."  It  came  to  him.  With  the 
vanishing  darkness,  he  revolted  finally  against  the  thought 
of  any  shadows  existing  between  him  and  Helen.  She 
should  have  all  the  light  that  he  had,  and  decide  her  own 
course.  He  had  little  hope  that  she  would  wed  him,  even 
if  she  did  not  marry  Nichol  in  his  present  condition — a  con 
dition  probably  only  temporary  and  amenable  to  skilful 
treatment. 

Wearily  he  dragged  his  lame  foot  back  to  a  hotel  in  the 
populous  party  of  the  city,  and  obtained  food  and  wine, 
for  he  was  terribly  exhausted.  Next  he  telegraphed  Mr. 
Kemble: 

"Arrived  last  evening.  The  wedding  will  have  to  be  postponed.  Will 
explain  later." 

"It's  the  best  1  can  do  now,"  he  muttered.  "Helen  will 
tbink  it  is  all  due  to  my  cousin's  illness."  Then  he  re 
turned  to  the  hospital  and  found  his  relative  in  a  state  of 
wonderment  at  his  absence,  but  refreshed  from  a  good 
night's  rest.  Yankee  Blank  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

"Hobart,"  exclaimed  his  cousin,  "you  look  ill — ten 
years  older  than  you  did  last  night." 

"You  see  me  now  by  daylight,"  was  the  quiet  reply. 
"I  am  not  very  well." 

"It's  a  perfect  shame  that  I've  been  the  cause  of  so  much 
trouble,  especially  when  it  wasn't  necessary." 

"Oh,  my  God  I"  thought  Martine,  "there  was  even  no 
need  of  this  fatal  journey."  But  his  face  had  become  grave 
and  inscrutable,  and  the  plea  of  ill-health  reconciled  his 
cousin  to  the  necessity  of  immediate  return.  There  was 
no  good  reason  for  his  remaining,  for  by  a  few  additional 
arrangements  his  relative  would  do  very  well  and  soon  be 


FOUND    YET  LOST  118 

able  to  take  care  of  himself.  Martine  felt  that  he  could  not 
jeopardize  his  hard-won  victory  by  delay,  which  was  as 
torturing  as  the  time  intervening  between  a  desperate  surgi 
cal  operation  and  the  knowledge  that  it  is  inevitable. 

After  seeing  that  his  cousin  made  a  good  breakfast,  he 
sought  a  private  interview  with  the  wardmaster.  He  was 
able  to  extract  but  little  information  about  Yankee  Blank 
more  than  the  man  had  given  himself.  "Doctors  say  he 
may  regain  his  memory  at  any  time,  or  it  may  be  a  long 
while,  and  possibly  never,"  was  the  conclusion. 

"I  think  I  know  him,"  said  Martine.  "1  will  bring  a 
physician  from  the  city  to  consult  this  morning  with  the 
surgeon  in  charge." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  was  the  reply.  "Something 
would  have  to  be  done  soon.  He  is  just  staying  on  here 
and  making  himself  useful  to  some  extent." 

When  Martine  re-entered  the  ward,  Yankee  Blank  ap 
peared,  grinned,  and  said  affably,  "Howdy."  Alas!  a  for 
lorn,  miserable  hope  that  he  might  have  been  mistaken  was 
banished  from  Hobart's  mind  now  that  he  saw  Nichol  in  the 
clear  light  of  day.  The  scar  across  his  forehead  and  a 
change  of  expression,  denoting  the  eclipse  of  fine,  culti 
vated  manhood,  could  not  disguise  the  unmistakable  fea 
tures.  There  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  carry  out  as 
quickly  as  possible  the  purpose  which  had  cost  him  so 
dear. 

He  first  telegraphed  his  uncle  to  dismiss  further  anxiety, 
and  that  his  son  would  soon  be  able  to  visit  him.  Then  the 
heavy-hearted  man  sought  a  physician  whom  he  knew  well 
by  reputation. 

The  consultation  was  held,  and  Nichol  (as  he  may  be 
more  properly  named  hereafter)  was  closely  questioned  and 
carefully  examined.  The  result  merely  confirmed  previous 
impressions.  It  was  explained,  as  far  as  explanation  can 
be  given  of  the  mysterious  functions  of  the  brain,  that  either 
the  concussion  of  the  exploding  shell  or  the  wound  from  a 
flying  fragment  had  paralyzed  the  organ  of  memory.  When 


114  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

such  paralysis  would  cease,  if  ever,  no  one  could  tell.  The 
power  to  recall  everything  might  return  at  any  moment  or 
it  might  be  delayed  indefinitely.  A  shock,  a  familiar  face, 
might  supply  the  potency  required,  or  restoration  come 
through  the  slow,  unseen  processes  of  nature.  Martine 
believed  that  Helen's  face  and  voice  would  accomplish 
everything. 

He  was  well  known  to  the  medical  authorities  and  had 
no  difficulty  in  securing  helief  that  he  had  identified  Nichol. 
He  also  promised  that  abundant  additional  proof  should  be 
sent  on  from  Alton,  such  certainty  being  necessary  to  secure 
the  officer's  back  pay  and  proper  discharge  from  the  service. 
The  surgeon  then  addressed  the  man  so  strangely  disabled, 
"You  know  I'm  in  charge  of  this  hospital  ?" 

"I  reckon,"  replied  Nichol,  anxiously,  for  the  brief  ex 
perience  which  he  could  recall  had  taught  him  that  the 
authority  of  the  surgeon-in-chief  was  autocratic. 

"Well,  first,  you  must  give  up  the  name  of  Yankee 
Blank.  Your  name  hereafter  is  Captain  Nichol." 

"All  right,  Doctor.     I'll  be  a  gin'ral  ef  you  sez  so." 

"Very  well;  remember  your  name  is  Captain  Nichol. 
Next,  you  must  obey  this  man  and  go  with  him.  You  must 
do  just  what  he  says  in  all  respects.  His  name  is  Mr.  Ho- 
bart  Martine." 

"Yes,  he  tole  me  las'  night,  Hob't  Ma' tine.  He  took  on 
mighty  cur'ous  after  seein'  me." 

"Do  you  understand  that  you  are  to  mind,  to  obey  him 
in  all  respects  just  as  you  have  obeyed  me?" 

"I  reckon.     Will  he  tek  me  to  anuther  hospital?" 

"He  will  take  you  where  you  will  be  well  cared  for  and 
treated  kindly."  Having  written  Nichol's  discharge  from 
the  hospital,  the  surgeon  turned  to  other  duties. 

Martine  informed  his  cousin,  as  far  as  it  was  essential, 
of  the  discovery  he  had  made  and  of  the  duties  which  it 
imposed,  then  took  his  leave.  Nichol  readily  accompanied 
him,  and  with  the  exception  of  a  tendency  to  irritation  at 
little  things,  exhibited  much  of  the  good-natured  docility 


FOUND    YET   LOST  115 

of  a  child.  Martine  took  him  to  a  hotel,  saw  that  he  had 
a  bath,  put  him  in  the  hands  of  a  barber,  and  then  sent  for 
a  clothier.  When  dressed  in  clean  linen  and  a  dark  civilian 
suit,  the  appearance  of  the  man  was  greatly  improved. 
Hobart  had  set  his  teeth,  and  would  entertain  no  thought 
of  compromise  with  his  conscience.  He  would  do  by  Nichol 
as  he  would  wish  to  be  done  by  if  their  relations  were  re 
versed.  Helen  should  receive  no  greater  shock  than  was 
inevitable,  nor  should  Nichol  lose  the  advantage  of  appear 
ing  before  her  in  the  outward  aspect  of  a  gentleman. 

Martine  then  planned  his  departure  so  that  he  would 
arrive  at  Alton  in  the  evening — the  evening  of  the  day  on 
which  he  was  to  have  been  married.  He  felt  that  Mr.  Kern- 
ble  should  see  Nichol  first  and  hear  the  strange  story ;  also 
that  the  father  must  break  the  news  to  the  daughter,  for  he 
could  not.  It  was  a  terrible  journey  to  the  poor  fellow,  for 
during  the  long  hours  of  inaction  he  was  compelled  to  face 
the  probable  results  of  his  discovery.  The  sight  of  Nichol 
and  his  manner  was  intolerable;  and  in  addition,  he  was 
almost  as  much  care  as  a  child.  Everything  struck  him  as 
new  and  strange,  and  he  was  disposed  to  ask  numberless 
questions.  His  vernacular,  his  alternations  of  amusement 
and  irritation,  and  the  oddity  of  his  ignorance  concerning 
things  which  should  be  simple  or  familiar  to  a  grown  man, 
attracted  the  attention  of  his  fellow- passengers.  It  was  with 
difficulty  that  Martine,  by  his  stern,  sad  face  and  a  cold, 
repelling  manner,  kept  curiosity  from  intruding  at  every 
point. 

At  last,  with  heart  beating  thickly,  he  saw  the  lights  of 
Alton  gleaming  in  the  distance.  It  was  a  train  not  often 
used  by  the  villagers,  and  fortunately  no  one  had  entered 
the  car  who  knew  him;  even  the  conductor  was  a  stranger. 
Alighting  at  the  depot,  he  hastily  took  a  carriage,  and  with 
his  charge  was  driven  to  the  private  entrance  of  the  hotel. 
Having  given  the  hackman  an  extra  dollar  not  to  mention 
his  arrival  till  morning,  he  took  Nichol  into  the  dimly- 
lighted  and  deserted  parlor  and  sent  for  the  well-knowa 


116  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

landlord.  Mr.  Jackson,  a  bustling  little  man,  who,  between 
the  gossip  of  the  place  and  his  few  guests,  never  seemed  to 
have  a  moment's  quiet,  soon  entered.  "Why,  Mr.  Martine," 
he  exclaimed,  "we  wasn't  a-lookin'  for  you  yet.  News  got 
around  somehow  that  your  cousin  was  dyin'  in  Washington 
and  that  your  weddin'  was  put  off  too — Why!  you  look  like 
a  ghost,  even  in  this  light,"  and  he  turned  up  the  lamp. 

Martine  had  told  Nichol  to  stand  by  a  window  with  his 
back  to  the  door.  He  now  turned  the  key,  pulled  down 
the  curtain,  then  drew  his  charge  forward  where  the  light 
fell  clear  upon  his  face,  and  asked,  "Jackson,  who  is  that?" 

The  landlord  stared,  his  jaw  fell  from  sheer  astonish 
ment,  as  he  faltered,  "Captain  Nichol!" 

"Yes,"  said  Nichol,  with  a  pleased  grin,  "that's  my  new 
name!  Jes'  got  it,  like  this  new  suit  o'  clo's,  bes'  I  ever 
had,  doggoned  ef  they  ain't.  My  old  name  was  Yankee 
Blank." 

"Great  Scott!"  ejaculated  Jackson;  "is  he  crazy?" 

"Look  yere,"  cried  Nichol;  "don'  yer  call  me  crazy  or 
I'll  light  on  yer  so  yer  won't  fergit  it." 

"There,  there!"  said  Martine,  soothingly,  "Mr.  Jackson 
doesn't  mean  any  harm.  He's  only  surprised  to  see  you 
home  again." 

"Is  this  home  ?     What's  home  ?" 

"It's  the  town  where  you  were  brought  up.  We'll  make 
you  understand  about  it  all  before  long.  Now  you  shall 
have  some  supper.  Mr.  Jackson  is  a  warm  friend  of  yours, 
and  will  see  that  you  have  a  good  one." 

"I  reckon  we'll  get  on  ef  he  gives  me  plenty  o'  fodder. 
Bring  it  toreckly,  fer  I'm  hungry.  Quit  yer  starin',  kyant 
yer?" 

"Don't  you  know  me,  Captain  Nichol?     Why,  I—" 

"Naw.  Never  seed  ner  yeared  on  yer.  Did  I  ever  nuss 
yer  in  a  hospital  ?  1  kyant  reckerlect  all  on  'em.  Get  we 
uns  some  supper." 

"That's  the  thing  to  do  first,  Jackson,"  added  Martine. 
"Show  us  upstairs  to  a  private  room  and  wait  on  us  your- 


FOUND    YET  LOST  117 

self.  Please  say  nothing  of  this  till  1  give  you  permis 
sion." 

They  were  soon  established  in  a  suitable  apartment,  in 
which  a  fire  was  kindled.  Nichol  took  a  rocking-chair  and 
acquiesced  in  Martine's  going  out  on  the  pretext  of  hasten 
ing  supper. 

The  landlord  received  explanations  which  enabled  him 
to  co-operate  with  Martine.  "I  could  not,"  said  the  latter, 
"take  him  to  his  own  home  without  first  preparing  his 
family.  Neither  could  I  take  him  to  mine  for  several 
reasons. ' ' 

"1  can  understand  some  of  'em,  Mr.  Martine.  Why, 
great  Scott!  How  about  your  marriage,  now  that — " 

"We  won't  discuss  that  subject.  The  one  thing  for  you 
to  keep  in  mind  is  that  Nichol  lost  his  memory  at  the  time 
of  his  wound.  He  don't  like  to  be  stared  at  or  thought 
strange.  You  must  humor  him  much  as  you  would  a  child. 
Perhaps  the  sight  of  familiar  faces  and  scenes  will  restore 
him.  Now  copy  this  note  in  your  handwriting  and  send  it 
to  Mr.  Kemble.  Tell  your  messenger  to  be  sure  to  put  it 
into  the  banker's  hands  and  no  other's,"  and  he  tore  from 
his  note- book  a  leaf  on  which  was  pencilled  the  following 
words : 

"MR.  KEMBLE: 

"DEAR  SIR — A.  sick  man  at  the  hotel  wishes  to  see  you  on  important  busi 
ness.  Don't  think  it's  bad  news  about  Mr.  Martine,  because  it  isn't.  Please 
come  at  once  and  oblige,  HENRY  JACKSON." 


118          TAKEN  ALIVE-.  AND  OTHER  STORIES 


CHAPTER  IX 

SHADOWS  OF  COMING   EVENTS 

THIS  first  day  of  winter,  her  fatal  wedding-day,  was  a 
sad  and  strange  one  to  Helen  Kemble.  The  sun  was 
hidden  by  dark  clouds,  yet  no  snow  fell  on  the  frozen 
ground.  She  had  wakened  in  the  morning  with  a  start, 
oppressed  by  a  disagreeable  yet  forgotten  dream.  Hastily 
dressing,  she  consoled  herself  with  the  hope  of  a  long  letter 
from  Martine,  explaining  everything  and  assuring  her  of  his 
welfare;  but  the  early  mail  brought  nothing.  As  the  morn 
ing  advanced,  a  telegram  from  Washington,  purposely  de 
layed,  merely  informed  her  that  her  affianced  was  well  and 
that  full  information  was  on  its  way. 

"He  has  evidently  found  his  cousin  very  low,  and  need 
ing  constant  care,"  she  had  sighingly  remarked  at  dinner. 

"Yes,  Nellie,"  said  the  banker,  cheerily,  "but  it  is  a 
comfort  he  is  well.  No  doubt  you  are  right  about  his 
cousin,  and  it  has  turned  out  as  flobart  feared.  In  this 
case  it  is  well  he  went,  for  he  would  always  have  reproached 
himself  if  he  had  not.  The  evening  mail  will  probably  make 
all  clear." 

Jllt  has  been  so  unfortunate!"  complained  Mrs.  Kemble. 
"If  it  had  only  happened  a  little  earlier,  or  a  little  later! 
To  have  all  one's  preparations  upset  and  one's  plans  frus 
trated  is  exasperating.  Were  it  not  for  that  journey,  Helen 
would  have  been  married  by  this  time.  People  come  osten 
sibly  to  express  sympathy,  but  in  reality  to  ask  questions." 

"I  don't  care  about  people,"  said  Helen,  "but  the  day 


FOUND    YET   LOST  119 

has  been  so  different  from  what  we  expected  that  it's  hard 
not  to  yield  to  a  presentiment  of  trouble.  It  is  so  dark  and 
gloomy  that  we  almost  need  a  lamp  at  midday." 

"Well,  well,"  cried  hearty  Mr.  Kemble,  "I'm  not  going 
to  cross  any  bridges  till  I  come  to  them.  That  telegram 
from  Hobart  is  all  we  need,  to  date.  I  look  at  things  as 
I  do  at  a  bank-bill.  If  its  face  is  all  right,  and  the  bill  itself 
all  right,  that's  enough.  You  women-folks  have  such  a  lot 
of  moods  and  tenses!  Look  at  this  matter  sensibly.  Hobart 
was  right  in  going.  He's  doing  his  duty,  and  soon  will  be 
back  with  mind  and  conscience  at  rest.  It  isn't  as  if  he 
were  ill  himself." 

"Yes,  papa,  that's  just  the  difference;  we  women  feel, 
and  you  men  reason.  What  you  say,  though,  is  a  good 
wholesome  antidote.  I  fear  I'm  a  little  morbid  to-day." 

After  dinner  she  and  her  mother  slipped  over  to  the 
adjoining  cottage,  which  had  been  made  so  pretty  for  her 
reception.  While  Mrs.  Kemble  busied  herself  here  and 
there,  Helen  kindled  a  fire  on  the  hearth  of  the  sitting-room 
and  sat  down  in  the  low  chair  which  she  knew  was  designed 
for  her.  The  belief  that  she  would  occupy  it  daily  and  be 
at  home,  happy  herself  and,  better  far,  making  another,  to 
whom  she  owed  so  much,  happy  beyond  even  his  fondest 
hope,  brought  smiles  to  her  face  as  she  watched  the  flicker 
ing  blaze. 

"Yes,"  she  murmured,  "I  can  make  him  happier  even 
than  he  dreams.  I  know  him  so  well,  his  tastes,  his  habits, 
what  he  most  enjoys,  that  it  will  be  an  easy  task  to  antici 
pate  his  wishes  and  enrich  his  life.  Then  he  has  been  such 
a  faithful,  devoted  friend!  He  shall  learn  that  his  example 
had  not  been  lost  on  me.." 

At  this  moment  the  wind  rose  in  such  a  long  mournful, 
human-like  sigh  about  the  house  that  she  started  up  and 
almost  shuddered.  When  the  evening  mail  came  and 
brought  no  letter,  she  found  it  hard  indeed  not  to  yield 
to  deep  depression.  In  vain  her  father  reasoned  with  her. 
"I  know  all  you  say  sounds  true  to  the  ear,"  she  said,  "but 


120  TAKEN    ALIVE:    AND   OTHER   STORIES 

not  to  my  heart.  I  can't  help  it;  but  I  am  oppressed  with 
a  nervous  dread  of  some  impending  trouble." 

They  passed  the  early  hours  of  the  evening  as  best  they 
could,  seeking  to  divert  each  other's  thoughts.  It  had  been 
long  since  the  kind  old  banker  was  so  garrulous,  and  Helen 
resolved  to  reward  him  by  keeping  up.  Indeed,  she  shrank 
from  retiring,  feeling  that  through  the  sleepless  night  she 
would  be  the  prey  of  all  sorts  of  wretched  fancies.  Never 
once  did  her  wildest  thoughts  suggest  what  had  happened, 
or  warn  her  of  the  tempest  soon  to  rage  in  her  breast. 

Then  came  the  late  messenger  with  the  landlord's  copied 
note.  She  snatched  it  from  the  bearer's  hand  before  he 
could  ring  the  bell,  for  her  straining  ears  had  heard  his 
step  even  on  the  gravel  walk.  Tremblingly  she  tore  open 
the  envelope  in  the  hall  without  looking  at  the  address. 

"Mr.  Jackson  said  how  I  was  to  give  it  to  your  father," 
protested  the  messenger. 

"Well,  well,"  responded  Mr.  Kemble,  perturbed  and 
anxious,  "I'm  here.  You  can  go  unless  there's  an  answer 
required. ' 

"Wasn't  told  nothin'  'bout  one,"  growled  the  departing 
errand-boy. 

"Give  the  note  to  me,  Helen,"  said  her  father.  "Why 
do  you  stare  at  it  so  ?" 

She  handed  it  to  him  without  a  word,  but  looked  search- 
ingly  in  his  face,  and  so  did  his  wife,  who  had  joined  him. 

"Why,  this  is  rather  strange,"  he  said. 

"I  think  it  is,"  added  Helen,  emphatically. 

Mrs.  Kemble  took  the  note  and  after  a  moment  ejacu 
lated:  "Well,  thank  the  Lord!  it  isn't  about  Hobart." 

"No,  no,"  said  the  banker,  almost  irritably.  "We've 
all  worried  about  Hobart  till  in  danger  of  making  fools 
of  ourselves.  As  if  people  never  get  sick  and  send  for 
relatives,  or  as  if  letters  were  never  delayed !  Why,  bless 
me!  haven't  we  heard  to-day  that  he  was  well?  and  hasn't 
Jackson,  who  knows  more  about  other  people's  business 
than  his  own,  been  considerate  enough  to  say  that  his  re- 


FOUND    YET   LOST  121 

quest  has  nothing  to  do  with  Hobart  ?  It  is  just  as  he  says, 
some  one  is  sick  and  wants  to  arrange  about  money  matters 
before  banking  hours  to-morrow.  There,  it  isn't  far.  I'll 
soon  be  back.'' 

"Let  me  go  with  you,  father,"  pleaded  Helen.  "I  can 
stay  with  Mrs.  Jackson  or  sit  in  the  parlor  till  you  are 
through." 

"Oh,  no,  indeed." 

"Papa,  /  am  going  with  you,"  said  Helen,  half -desper 
ately.  "I  don't  believe  I  am  so  troubled  for  nothing.  Per 
haps  it's  a  merciful  warning,  and  I  may  be  of  use  to  you." 

"Oh,  let  her  go,  father,"  said  his  wife.  "She  had  better 
be  with  you  than  nervously  worrying  at  home.  I'll  be  bet 
ter  satisfied  if  she  is  with  you." 

"Bundle  up  well,  then,  and  come  along,  you  silly  little 
girl" 

Nichol  was  too  agreeably  occupied  with  his  supper  to 
miss  Hobart,  who  watched  in  the  darkened  parlor  for  the 
coming  of  Mr.  Kemble.  At  last  he  saw  the  banker  passing 
through  the  light  streaming  from  a  shop-window,  and  also 
recognized  Helen  at  his  side.  His  ruse  in  sending  a  note 
purporting  to  come  from  the  landlord  had  evidently  failed; 
and  here  was  a  new  complication.  He  was  so  exhausted  in 
body  and  mind  that  he  felt  he  could  not  meet  the  girl  now 
without  giving  way  utterly.  Hastily  returning  to  the  room 
in  which  were  Nichol  and  Jackson,  he  summoned  the  latter 
and  said,  "Unfortunately,  Miss  Kemble  is  coming  with  her 
father.  Keep  your  counsel;  give  me  a  light  in  another  pri 
vate  room;  detain  the  young  lady  in  the  parlor,  and  then 
bring  Mr.  Kemble  to  me." 

41  Ah,  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Kemble,*'  said  the  landlord, 
a  moment  or  two  later,  with  reassuring  cheerfulness;  "you 
too,  Miss  Helen.  That's  right,  take  good  care  of  the  old 
gentleman.  Yes,  we  have  a  sick  man  here  who  wants  to 
see  you,  sir.  Miss  Helen,  take  a  seat  in  the  parlor  by  the 
fire  while  I  turn  up  the  lamp.  Guess  you  won't  have  to 
wait  long." 

6— ROB— XI 


122  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND   OTHER   STORIES 

I 

"Now,  Helen,"  said  her  father,  smiling  at  her  signifi 
cantly,  "can  you  trust  me  out  of  your  sight  to  go  upstairs 
with  Mr.  Jackson?" 

Much  relieved,  she  smiled  in  return  and  sat  down  to  wait. 

"  Who  is  this  man,  Jackson  ?"  Mr.  Kemble  asked  on  the 
stairs. 

"Well,  sir,  he  said  he  would  explain  everything." 

A  moment  later  the  banker  needed  not  Martine's  warn 
ing  gesture  enjoining  silence,  for  he  was  speechless  with 
astonishment. 

"Mr.  Jackson,"  whispered  Marline,  "will  you  please 
remain  in  the  other  room  and  look  after  your  patient?" 

"Hobart,"  faltered  Mr.  Kemble,  "in  the  name  of  all 
that's  strange,  what  does  this  mean?" 

"It  is  indeed  very  strange,  sir.  You  must  summon  all 
your  nerve  and  fortitude  to  help  us  through.  Never  before 
were  your  strength  and  good  strong  common-sense  more 
needed.  I've  nearly  reached  the  end  of  my  endurance. 
Please,  sir,  for  Helen's  sake,  preserve  your  self-control  and 
the  best  use  of  all  your  faculties,  for  you  must  now  advise. 
Mr.  Kemble,  Captain  Nichol  is  alive." 

The  banker  sank  into  a  chair  and  groaned.  "This  would 
have  been  glad  news  to  me  once;  I  suppose  it  should  be  so 
now.  But  how,  how  can  this  be?" 

"Well,  sir,  as  you  say,  it  should  be  glad  news;  it  will  be 
to  all  eventually.  I  am  placed  in  a  very  hard  position;  but 
I  have  tried  to  do  my  duty,  and  will." 

"Why,  Hobart,  my  boy,  you  look  more  worn  than  you 
did  after  your  illness.  Merciful  Heaven!  what  a  compli 
cation!" 

"A  far  worse  one  than  you  can  even  imagine.  Captain 
Nichol  wouldn't  know  you.  His  memory  was  destroyed  at 
the  time  of  the  injury.  All  before  that  is  gone  utterly;" 
and  Martine  rapidly  narrated  what  is  already  known  to  the 
reader,  concluding,  "I'm  sorry  Helen  came  with  you,  and 
I  think  you  had  better  get  her  home  as  soon  as  possible.  I 
could  not  take  him  to  my  home  for  several  reasons,  or  at 


FOUND    YET  LOST  123 

least  I  thought  it  best  not  to.  It  is  my  belief  that  the  sight 
of  Helen,  the  tones  of  her  voice,  will  restore  him;  and  I  do 
not  think  it  best  for  him  to  regain  his  consciousness  of  the 
past  in  a  dwelling  prepared  for  Helen's  reception  as  my 
wife.  Perhaps  later  on,  too,  you  will  understand  why  I 
cannot  see  him  there.  I  shall  need  a  home,  a  refuge  with 
no  such  associations.  Here,  on  this  neutral  ground,  I 
thought  we  could  consult,  and  if  necessary  send  for  his 
parents  to-night.  I  would  have  telegraphed  you,  but  the 
case  is  so  complicated,  so  difficult.  Helen  must  be  grad 
ually  prepared  for  the  part  she  must  take.  Cost  me  what 
it  may,  Nichol  must  have  his  chance.  His  memory  may 
come  back  instantly  and  he  recall  everything  to  the  moment 
of  his  injury.  What  could  be  more  potent  to  effect  this 
than  the  sight  and  voice  of  Helen?  No  one  here  except 
Jackson  is  now  aware  of  his  condition.  If  she  can  restore 
him,  no  one  else,  not  even  his  parents,  need  know  anything 
about  it,  except  in  a  general  way.  It  will  save  a  world  of 
disagreeable  talk  and  distress.  At  any  rate,  this  course 
seemed  the  best  I  could  hit  upon  in  my  distracted  con 
dition." 

"Well,  Hobart,  my  poor  young  friend,  you  have  been 
tried  as  by  fire,"  said  Mr.  Kemble,  in  a  voice  broken  by 
sympathy;  "God  help  you  and  guide  us  all  in  this  strange 
snarl !  I  feel  that  the  first  thing  to  be  done  is  to  get  Helen 
home.  Such  tidings  as  yours  should  be  broken  to  her  in 
that  refuge  only." 

41 1  agree  with  you  most  emphatically,  Mr.  Kemble.  In 
the  seclusion  of  her  own  home,  with  none  present  except 
yourself  and  her  mother,  she  should  face  this  thing  and 
nerve  herself  to  act  her  part,  the  most  important  of  all.  If 
she  cannot  awaken  Captain  Nic hoi's  memory,  it  is  hard 
to  say  what  will,  or  when  he  will  be  restored." 

"Possibly  seeing  me,  so  closely  associated  with  her,  may 
have  the  same  effect,"  faltered  the  banker. 

"I  doubt  it;  but  we  can  try  it.  Don't  expect  me  to 
speak  while  in  the  hallway.  Helen,  no  doubt,  is  on  the 


124  TAKEN    ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

alert,  and  I  cannot  meet  her  to-night.  I  am  just  keeping 
up  from  sheer  force  of  will.  You  must  try  to  realize  it. 
This  discovery  will  change  everything  for  me.  Helen's  old 
love  will  revive  in  all-absorbing  power.  I've  faced  this  in 
thought,  but  cannot  in  reality  now — I  simply  cannot.  It 
would  do  no  good.  My  presence  would  be  an  embarrass 
ment  to  her,  and  I  taxed  beyond  mortal  endurance.  You 
may  think  me  weak,  but  I  cannot  help  it.  As  soon  as  pos 
sible  I  must  put  you,  and  if  you  think  best,  Captain  Nichol's 
father,  in  charge  of  the  situation.  Jackson  can  send  for  his 
father  at  once  if  you  wish." 

"I  do  wish  it  immediately.  I  can't  see  my  way  through 
this.  I  would  like  Dr.  Barnes'  advice  and  presence  also." 

"I  think  it  would  be  wise,  sir.  The  point  I  wish  to  make 
is  that  I  have  done  about  all  that  I  now  can  in  this  affair. 
My  further  presence  is  only  another  complication.  At  any 
rate,  I  must  have  a  respite — the  privilege  of  going  quietly 
to  my  own  home  as  soon  as  possible." 

"Oh,  Hobart,  my  heart  aches  for  you;  it  just  aches  for 
you.  You  have  indeed  been  called  upon  to  endure  a  hun 
dred-fold  too  much  in  this  strange  affair.  How  it  will  all 
end  (rod  only  knows.  I  understand  you  sufficiently.  Leave 
the  matter  to  me  now.  We  will  have  Dr.  Barnes  and  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Nichol  here  as  soon  as  can  be.  I  suppose  I  had 
better  see  the  captain  a  few  moments  and  then  take  Helen 
home." 

Martine  led  the  way  into  tne  other  apartment,  where 
Nichol,  rendered  good-natured  by  his  supper  and  a  cigar, 
was  conversing  sociably  with  the  landlord.  Mr.  Kemble 
fairly  trembled  as  he  came  forward,  involuntarily  expecting 
that  the  man  so  well  known  to  him  must  give  some  sign  of 
recognition. 

Nichol  paid  no  heed  to  him.  He  had  been  too  long 
accustomed  to  see  strangers  coming  and  going  to  give  them 
either  thought  or  attention. 

"I  say,  Hob't  Ma'tine,"  he  began,  "don'  yer  cuss  me 
fer  eatin'  all  the  supper.  I  'lowed  ter  this  Jackson,  as  yer 


FOUND    YET  LOST  125 

call  'im,  that  yer'd  get  a  bite  somewhar  else,  en  he  'lowed 
yer  would." 

"All  right,  Nichol;  I'm  glad  you  had  a  good  supper." 

"I  say,  Jackson,  this  Ma'tine's  a  cur'ous  chap — mo 
cur'ous  than  I  be,  I  reckon.  He's  been  actin'  cur'ous  eve* 
since  he  seed  me  in  the  horspital.  It's  all  cur'ous.  'Fore 
he  come,  doctors  en  folks  was  trying  ter  fin'  out  'bout  me, 
en  this  Ma'tine  'lows  he  knows  all  'bout  me.  Ef  he  wuzn't 
so  orful  glum,  he'd  be  a  good  chap  anuff,  ef  he  is  cur'ous. 
Bit's  all  a-changin'  somehow,  en  yet  'tisn't.  Awhile  ago 
nobody  knowd  'bout  me,  en  they  wuz  allus  a-pesterin'  of 
me  with  questions.  En  now  Ma'tine  en  you  'low  you  know 
'bout  me,  yet  you  ast  questions  jes'  the  same.  Like  anuff 
this  man  yere,"  pointing  with  his  cigar  to  Mr.  Kemble, 
who  was  listening  with  a  deeply-troubled  face,  "knows 
'bout  me  too,  yet  wants  to  ast  questions.  I  don'  keer  ef 
I  do  say  it,  I  had  better  times  with  the  Johnnies  that  call 
me  Yankee  Blank  than  I  ever  had  sence.  Well,  ole  duffer 
[to  Mr.  Kemble],  ast  away  and  git  yer  load  off  n  yer  mind. 
I  don't  like  glum  faces  roun'  en  folks  jes'  nachelly  bilin1 
over  with  questions." 

"No,  Captain  Nichol,"  said  the  banker,  gravely  and 
sadly,  "I've  no  questions  to  ask.  Good-by  for  the  present." 

Nichol  nodded  a  careless  dismissal  and  resumed  his  remi 
niscences  with  Jackson,  whose  eager  curiosity  and  readiness 
to  laugh  were  much  more  to  his  mind. 

Following  the  noise  made  by  closing  the  door,  Helen's 
voice  rang  up  from  the  hall  below,  "Papa!" 

"Yes,  I'm  coming,  dear,"  he  tried  to  answer  cheerily. 
Then  he  wrung  Martine's  hand  .nd  whispered,  "Send  for 
Dr.  Barnes.  God  knows  you  should  have  relief.  Tell  Jack 
son  also  to  have  a  carriage  go  for  Mr.  Nichol  at  once. 
After  the  doctor  comes  you  may  leave  all  in  our  hands. 
Good-by." 

Martine  heard  the  rustle  of  a  lady's  dress  and  retired 
precipitately. 


126  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 


CHAPTER  X 
"YOU  CANNOT  UNDERSTAND" 

WITH  an  affectation  of  briskness  he  was  far  from 
feeling,  Mr.  Kemble  came  down  the  stairs  and 
joined  his  daughter  in  the  hall.  He  had  taken 
pains  to  draw  his  hat  well  over  his  eyes,  anticipating  and 
dreading  her  keen  scrutiny,  but,  strange  to  say,  his  troubled 
demeanor  passed  unnoticed.  In  the  interval  of  waiting 
Helen's  thoughts  had  taken  a  new  turn.  "Well,  papa," 
she  began,  as  they  passed  into  the  street,  "I  am  curious 
to  know  about  the  sick  man.  You  stayed  an  age,  but  all 
the  same  I'm  glad  I  came  with  you.  Forebodings,  presenti 
ments,  and  all  that  kind  of  thing  seemed  absurd  the  mo 
ment  I  saw  Jackson's  keen,  mousing  little  visage.  His 
very  voice  is  like  a  ray  of  garish  light  entering  a  dusky, 
haunted  room.  Things  suggesting  ghosts  and  hobgoblins 
become  ridiculously  prosaic,  and  you  are  ashamed  of  your 
self  and  your  fears.-" 

"Yes,  yes,"  replied  Mr.  Kemble,  yielding  to  irritation 
in  his  deep  perplexity,  "the  more  matter-of-fact  we  are  the 
better  we're  off.  I  suppose  the  best  thing  to  do  is  just  to 
face  what  happens  and  try  to  be  brave." 

"Well,  papa,  what's  happened  to  annoy  you  to-night? 
Is  this  sick  man  going  to  make  you  trouble  ?" 

"Like  enough.  I  hope  not.  At  any  rate,  he  has  claims 
which  I  must  meet. ' ' 

"Don't  you  think  you  can  meet  them?"  was  her  next 
anxious  query,  her  mind  reverting  to  some  financial  obli 
gation. 


FOUND    YET  LOST  127 

"We'll  see.  You  and  mother'll  have  to  help  me  out,  I 
guess.  I'll  tell  you  both  when  we  get  home;"  and  his  sigh 
was  so  deep  as  to  be  almost  a  groan. 

"Papa,"  said  Helen,  earnestly  pressing  his  arm,  "don't 
worry.  Mamma  and  I  will  stand  by  you;  so  will  Hobart. 
He  is  the  last  one  in  the  world  to  desert  one  in  any  kind  of 
trouble." 

"I  know  that,  no  one  better;  but  1  fear  he'll  be  in  deeper 
trouble  than  any  of  us.  The  exasperating  thing  is  that 
there  should  be  any  trouble  at  all.  If  it  had  only  hap 
pened  before — well,  well,  I  can't  talk  here  in  the  street. 
As  you  say,  you  must  stand  by  me,  and  I'll  do  the  best 
I  can  by  you  and  all  concerned." 

"Oh,  papa,  there  was  good  cause  for  my  foreboding." 

"Well,  yes,  and  no.  I  don't  know.  I'm  at  my  wits' 
end.  If  you'll  be  brave  and  sensible,  you  can  probably  do 
more  than  any  of  us. ' ' 

"Papa,  papa,  something  is  the  matter  with  Hobart,"  and 
she  drew  him  hastily  into  the  house,  which  they  had  now 
reached. 

Mrs.  Kemble  met  them  at  the  door.  Alarmed  at  her 
husband's  troubled  face,  she  exclaimed  anxiously,  "Who 
is  this  man?  What  did  he  want?" 

"Come  now,  mother,  give  me  a  chance  to  get  my  breath. 
We'  11  close  the  doors,  sit  down,  and  talk  it  all  over. ' ' 

Mrs.  Kemble  and  her  daughter  exchanged  an  apprehen 
sive  glance  and  followed  with  the  air  of  being  prepared  for 
the  worst. 

The  banker  sat  down  and  wiped  the  perspiration  from 
his  brow,  then  looked  dubiously  at  the  deeply  anxious  faces 
turned  toward  him.  "Well,"  he  said,  "I'm  going  to  tell 
you  everything  as  far  as  I  understand  it.  Now  I  want  to 
see  if  you  two  can't  listen  calmly  and  quietly  and  not  give 
way  to  useless  feeling.  There's  much  to  be  done,  and  you 
especially,  Helen,  must  be  in  the  right  condition  to  do  it." 

"Oh,  papa,  why  torture  me  so?  Something  has  hap 
pened  to  Hobart.  I  can't  endure  this  suspense." 


128  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

"Something  has  happened  to  us  all,"  replied  her  father, 
gravely.  "Hobart  has  acted  like  a  hero,  like  a  saint;  so 
must  you.  He  is  as  well  and  able  to  go  about  as  you  are. 
I've  seen  him  and  talked  with  him." 

"He  saw  you  and  not  me?"  cried  the  girl,  starting  up. 

"Helen,  I  entreat,  I  command  you  to  be  composed  and 
listen  patiently.  Don't  you  know  him  well  enough  to  be 
sure  he  had  good  reasons — " 

"I  can't  imagine  a  reason,"  was  the  passionate  reply,  as 
she  paced  the  floor.  "What  reason  could  keep  me  from 
him  ?  Merciful  Heaven !  father,  have  you  forgotten  that 
I  was  to  marry  him  to-day?  Well,"  she  added  hoarsely, 
standing  before  him  with  hands  clinched  in  her  effort  at 
self-restraint,  "the  reason?" 

"Poor  fellow!  poor  fellow!  he  has   not  forgotten   it," 
groaned  Mr.  Kemble.     "Well,  1  might  as  well  out  with  it. 
^Suppose  Captain  Nichol  was  not  killed  after  all?" 

Helen  sank  into  a  chair  as  if  struck  down  as  Nichol  had 
been  himself.  "Whatl"  she  whispered;  and  her  face  was 
white  indeed. 

Mrs.  Kemble  rushed  to  her  husband,  demanding,  "Do 
you  mean  to  tell  us  that  Captain  Nichol  is  alive  ?" 

"Yes;  that's  just  the  question  we've  got  to  face." 

"It  brings  up  another  question,"  replied  his  wife, 
sternly.  "If  he's  been  alive  all  this  time,  why  did  he  not 
let  us  know  ?  As  far  as  I  can  make  out,  Hobart  has  found 
him  in  Washington — " 

"Helen,"  cried  her  father  to  the  trembling  girl,  "for 
Heaven's  sake,  be  calm!" 

"He's alive,  alive!"  she  answered,  as  if  no  other  thought 
could  exist  in  her  mind.  Her  eyes  were  kindling,  the  color 
coming  into  her  face,  and  her  bosom  throbbed  quickly  as 
if  her  heart  would  burst  its  bonds.  Suddenly  she  rushed 
to  her  father,  exclaiming,  "He  was  the  sick  man.  Oh,  why 
did  you  not  let  me  see  him?" 

"Well,  well!"  ejaculated  Mr.  Kemble,  "Hobart  was 
right,  poor  fellow  1  Yes,  Helen,  Captain  Nichol  is  the  sick 


FOUND   YET  LOST  129 

man,  not  dangerously  ill,  however.  You  are  giving  ample 
reason  why  you  should  not  see  him  yet;  and  I  tell  you 
plainly  you  can't  see  him  till  you  are  just  as  composed  as 
lam." 

She  burst  into  a  joyous,  half-hysterical  laugh  as  she  ex 
claimed,  "That's  not  asking  much.  I  never  saw  you  so 
moved,  papa.  Little  wonder!  The  dead  is  alive  again! 
Oh,  papa,  papa,  you  don't  understand  me  at  all!  Could  I 
hear  such  tidings  composedly — I  who  have  wept  so  many 
long  nights  and  days  over  his  death  ?  I  must  give  expres 
sion  to  overwhelming  feeling  here  where  it  can  do  no  harm, 
but  if  I  had  seen  him — when  I  do  see  him — ah!  he'll  receive 
no  harm  from  me." 

"But,  Helen,  think  of  Hobart,"  cried  Mrs.  Kemble,  in 
sharp  distress. 

"Mother,  mother,  I  cannot  help  it.  Albert  is  alive, 
alive  I  The  old  feeling  comes  back  like  the  breaking  up  of 
the  fountains  of  the  great  deep.  You  cannot  know,  cannot 
understand;  Hobart  will.  I'm  sorry,  sorry  for  him;  but  he 
will  understand.  I  thought  Albert  was  dead ;  I  wanted  to 
make  Hobart  happy.  He  was  so  good  and  kind  and  deserv 
ing  that  I  did  love  him  in  a  sincere,  quiet  way,  but  not  with 
my  first  love,  not  as  I  loved  Albert.  I  thought  my  love 
was  buried  with  him;  but  it  has  burst  the  grave  as  he  has. 
Papa,  papa,  let  me  go  to  him,  now,  now!  You  say  he  is 
sick;  it  is  my  place  to  nurse  him  back  to  life.  Who  has 
a  better  right?  Why  do  you  not  bring  him  here?" 

"Perhaps  it  will  be  best,  since  Helen  feels  so,"  said  Mr. 
Kemble,  looking  at  his  wife. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  she  replied  with  a  deep  sigh. 
"We  certainly  don't  wish  the  public  to  be  looking  on  any 
more  than  we  can  help.  He  should  be  either  here  or  at  his 
own  home." 

"There's  more  reason  for  what  you  say  than  you  think," 
Mr.  Kemble  began. 

"There,  papa,"  interrupted  Helen,  "I'd  be  more  or  less 
than  human  if  I  could  take  this  undreamed-of  news  quietly. 


130  TAKEN    ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

I  can  see  how  perplexed  and  troubled  you've  been,  and  how 
you've  kindly  tried  to  prepare  me  for  the  tidings.  You  will 
find  that  I  have  strength  of  mind  to  meet  all  that  is  required 
of  me.  It  is  all  simpler  to  me  than  to  you,  for  in  a  matter 
of  this  kind  the  heart  is  the  guide,  indeed,  the  only  guide. 
Think!  If  Albert  had  come  back  months  ago;  if  Hobart 
had  brought  him  back  wounded  and  disabled — how  would 
we  have  acted  ?  Only  our  belief  in  his  death  led  to  what 
has  happened  since,  and  the  fact  of  life  changes  everything 
back  to—" 

"Now,  Helen,  stop  and  listen  to  me,"  said  her  father, 
firmly.  "In  one  sense  the  crisis  is  over,  and  you've  heard 
the  news  which  I  scarcely  knew  how  to  break  to  you.  You 
say  you  will  have  strength  of  mind  to  meet  what  is  required 
of  you.  I  trust  you  may.  But  it's  time  you  understood 
the  situation  as  far  as  I  do.  Mother's  words  show  she's 
of!  the  track  in  her  suspicion.  Nichol  is  not  to  blame  in 
any  sense.  He  is  deserving  of  all  sympathy,  and  yet — oh, 
dear,  it  is  such  a  complication !' '  and  the  old  man  groaned 
as  he  thought  of  the  personality  who  best  knew  himself  as 
Yankee  Blank.  "The  fact  is,"  he  resumed  to  his  breath 
less  listeners,  "Nichol  is  not  ill  at  all  physically.  His  mind 
is  affected — ' ' 

Mrs.  Kemble  sank  back  in  her  chair,  and  Helen  uttered 
a  cry  of  dismay. 

"Yes,  his  mind  is  affected  peculiarly.  He  remembers 
nothing  that  happened  before  he  was  wounded.  You  must 
realize  this,  Helen;  you  must  prepare  yourself  for  it.  His 
loss  of  memory  is  much  more  sad  than  if  he  had  lost  an  arm 
or  a  leg.  He  remembers  only  what  he  has  picked  up  since 
his  injury." 

"Then,  then,  he's  not  insane  ?"  gasped  Helen. 

•'No,  no,  I  should  say  not,"  replied  her  father,  dubi 
ously;  "yet  his  words  and  manner  produce  much  the  same 
effect  as  if  he  were— even  a  stronger  effect." 

"Oh,  this  is  dreadful!"  cried  his  wife. 

"Dreadful  indeed,  but  not  hopeless,  you  know.     Keep 


FOUND    YET  LOST  181 

in  mind  doctors  say  that  his  memory  may  come  back  at  any 
time;  and  Hobart  has  the  belief  that  the  sight  and  voice  of 
Helen  will  bring  it  back." 

"God  bless  Hobart,"  said  Helen,  with  a  deep  breath, 
"and  God  help  him!  His  own  love  inspired  that  belief. 
He's  right;  I  know  he's  right." 

"Well,  perhaps  he  is.  I  don't  know.  I  thought  Nichol 
would  recognize  me;  but  there  wasn't  a  sign." 

"Oh,  papa,"  cried  Helen,  smiling  through  her  tears, 
"there  are  some  things  which  even  your  experience  and 
wisdom  fail  in.  Albert  will  know  me.  We  have  talked 
long  enough;  now  let  us  act." 

"You  don't  realize  it  all  yet,  Helen;  you  can't.  You 
must  remember  that  Nichol  regained  consciousness  in  a 
Southern  hospital.  He  has  learned  to  talk  and  act  very 
much  like  such  soldiers  as  would  associate  with  him." 

"The  fact  that  he's  alive  and  that  I  now  may  restore  him 
is  enough,  papa." 

"Well,  I  want  Dr.  Barnes  present  when  you  meet  him." 

"Certainly;  at  least  within  call." 

"I  must  stipulate  too,"  said  Mrs.  Kemble.  "I  don't 
wish  the  coming  scenes  to  take  place  in  a  hotel,  and  under 
the  eyes  of  that  gossip,  Jackson.  I  don't  see  why  Hobart 
took  him  there." 

"I  do,"  said  Mr.  Kemble,  standing  up  for  his  favorite. 
"Hobart  has  already  endured  more  than  mortal  man  ought, 
yet  he  has  been  most  delicately  considerate.  No  one  but 
Jackson  and  Dr.  Barnes  know  about  Nichol  and  his  condi 
tion.  I  have  also  had  Nichol's  father  and  mother  sent  for 
on  my  own  responsibility,  for  they  should  take  their  share 
of  the  matter.  Hobart  believes  that  Helen  can  restore 
Nichol's  memory.  This  would  simplify  everything  and 
save  many  painful  impressions.  You  see,  it's  such  an  ob 
scure  trouble,  and  there  should  be  no  ill-advised  blundering 
in  the  matter.  The  doctors  in  Washington  told  Hobart  that 
a  slight  shock,  or  the  sight  of  an  object  that  once  had  the 
strongest  hold  upon  his  thoughts — well,  you  understand. " 


182  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND   OTHER   STORIES 

"Yes,"  said  Helen,  "I  do  understand.  Hobart  is  trying 
to  give  Albert  the  very  best  chance.  Albert  wrote  that  his 
last  earthly  thoughts  would  be  of  me.  It  is  but  natural  that 
my  presence  should  kindle  those  thoughts  again.  It  was 
like  Hobart,  who  is  almost  divine  in  his  thoughtfulness 
of  others,  to  wish  to  shield  Albert  from  the  eyes  of  even 
his  own  father  and  mother  until  he  could  know  them,  and 
know  us  all.  He  was  only  taken  to  the  hotel  that  we  all 
might  understand  and  be  prepared  to  do  our  part.  Papa, 
bring  Albert  here  and  let  his  father  and  mother  come  here 
also.  He  should  be  sacredly  shielded  in  his  infirmity,  and 
given  every  chance  to  recover  before  being  seen  by  others; 
and.  please,  papa,  exact  from  Jackson  a  solemn  promise  not 
to  tattle  about  Albert." 

"Yes,  yes;  but  we  have  first  a  duty  to  perform.  Mother, 
please  prepare  a  little  lunch,  and  put  a  glass  of  your  old 
currant  wine  on  the  tray.  Hobart  must  not  come  to  a  cold, 
cheerless  home.  I'll  go  and  have  his  old  servant  up  and 
ready  to  receive  him." 

"No,  mamma,  that  is  still  my  privilege,"  said  Helen, 
with  a  rush  of  tears.  "Oh,  I'm  so  sorry,  sorry  for  him!  but 
neither  he  nor  I  can  help  or  change  what  is,  what's  true." 

When  the  tray  was  ready,  she  wrote  and  sealed  these 
words: 

"God  bless  you,  Hobart;  God  reward  you!  You  have  made  me  feel  to 
night  that  earth  is  too  poor,  and  only  heaven  rich  enough  to  reward  yon. 

"HBLEM." 


FOUND    YET  LOST  133 


CHAPTER  XI 
MR.  KEMBLE'S  APPEAL 

IT  often  happens  that  the  wife's  disposition  is  an  antidote 
to  her  husband;  and  this  was  fortunately  true  of  Mrs. 
Jackson.  She  was  neither  curious  nor  gossiping,  and 
with  a  quick  instinct  that  privacy  was  desired  by  Martine, 
gave  at  an  early  hour  her  orders  to  close  the  house  for  the 
night.  The  few  loungers,  knowing  that  she  was  autocratic, 
slouched  off  to  other  resorts.  The  man  and  maids  of  all  work 
were  kept  out  of  the  way,  while  she  and  her  husband  waited 
on  their  unexpected  guests.  After  Mr.  Kemble's  departure, 
the  errand-boy  was  roused  from  his  doze  behind  the  stove 
and  sent  for  Dr.  Barnes;  then  Jackson  wrote  another  note 
at  Martine's  dictation: 

"MB.  WILLIAM  NICHOL: 

"DEAR  SIH — A  relative  of  yours  is  sick  at  my  house.  He  came  on  the  even 
ing  train.  You  and  your  wife  had  better  come  at  once  in  the  carriage." 

Martine  retired  to  the  room  in  which  he  had  seen  Mr. 
Kemble,  that  he  might  compose  himself  before  meeting  the 
physician.  The  sound  of  Helen's  voice,  the  mere  proximity 
of  the  girl  who  at  this  hour  was  to  have  been  his  wife  had 
not  "old  chaos"  come  again  for  him,  were  by  no  means 
"straws"  in  their  final  and  crushing  weight.  Motionless, 
yet  with  mind  verging  on  distraction,  he  sat  in  the  cold, 
dimly  lighted  room  until  aroused  by  the  voice  of  Dr.  Barnes. 

"Why,  Hobart!"  cried  his  old  friend,  starting  at  the 
bloodshot  eyes  and  pallid  face  of  the  young  man,  "what  is 


134  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

the  matter  ?  You  need  me,  sure  enough,  but  why  on  earth 
are  you  shivering  in  this  cold  room  at  the  hotel  ?" 

Martine  again  said  to  Jackson:  "Don't  leave  him,"  and 
closed  the  door.  Then,  to  the  physician:  "Dr.  Barnes,  I 
am  ill  and  worn-out.  I  know  it  only  too  well.  You  must 
listen  carefully  while  I  in  brief  tell  you  why  you  were  sent 
for;  then  you  and  others  must  take  charge  and  act  as  you 
think  best.  I'm  going  home.  I  must  have  rest  and  a  res 
pite.  I  must  be  by  myself;"  and  he  rapidly  began  to 
sketch  his  experiences  in  Washington. 

"Hold!"  said  the  sensible  old  doctor,  who  indulged  in 
only  a  few  strong  exclamations  of  surprise,  which  did  not 
interrupt  the  speaker,  "hold!  You  say  you  left  the  ward 
to  think  it  over,  after  being  convinced  that  you  had  dis 
covered  Nichol.  Did  you  think  it  over  quietly  ?" 

"Quietly!"  repeated  Martine,  with  intense  bitterness. 
"Would  a  man,  not  a  mummy,  think  over  such  a  thing 
quietly?  Judge  me  as  you  please,  but  I  was  tempted  as 
I  believe  never  man  was  before.  I  fought  the  Devil  till 
morning." 

"I  thought  as  much,"  said  the  doctor,  grasping  Mar- 
tine's  hand,  then  slipping  a  finger  on  his  pulse.  "You 
fought  on  foot  too,  didn't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  walked  the  streets  as  if  demented." 

"Of  course.  That  in  part  accounts  for  your  exhaustion. 
Have  you  slept  much  since  ?" 

"Oh,  Doctor,  let  me  get  through  and  go  home!" 

"No,  Hobart,  you  can't  get  through  with  me  till  I  am 
with  you.  My  dear  fellow,  do  you  think  that  I  don't  under 
stand  and  sympathize  with  you  ?  There's  no  reason  why 
you  should  virtually  risk  your  life  for  Captain  Nichol 
again.  Take  this  dose  of  quinine  at  once,  and  then  pro 
ceed.  I  can  catch  on  rapidly.  First  answer,  how  much 
have  you  slept  since  ?" 

"The  idea  of  sleep!  You  can  remedy  this,  Doctor,  after 
my  part  in  this  affair  is  over.  I  must  finish  now.  Helen 
may  return,  and  I  cannot  meet  her,  nor  am  I  equal  to  see- 


FOUND    YE7   LOST  135 

ing  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Nichol.  My  head  feels  queer,  but  I'll  get 
through  somehow,  if  the  strain  is  not  kept  up  too  long;" 
and  he  finished  in  outline  his  story.  In  conclusion  he  said, 
"You  will  understand  that  you  are  now  to  have  charge  of 
Nichol.  He  is  prepared  by  his  experience  to  obey  you,  for 
he  has  always  been  in  hospitals,  where  the  surgeon's  will  is 
law.  Except  with  physicians,  he  has  a  sort  of  rough  way 
wardness,  learned  from  the  soldiers." 

"Yes,  I  understand  sufficiently  now  to  manage.  You 
put  him  in  my  charge,  then  go  home,  and  I'll  visit  you  as 
soon  as  I  can." 

"One  word  more,  Doctor.  As  far  as  you  think  best, 
enjoin  reticence  on  Jackson.  If  the  sight  of  Helen  restores 
Nichol,  as  1  believe  it  will,  little  need  ever  be  said  about 
his  present  condition.  Jackson  would  not  dare  to  disobey  a 
physician's  injunction." 

"Don't  you  dare  disobey  them,  either.  I'll  manage  him 
too.  Come." 

Nichol  had  slept  a  good  deal  during  the  latter  part  of  his 
journey,  and  now  was  inclined  to  wakefulness — a  tendency 
much  increased  by  his  habit  of  waiting  on  hospital  patients 
at  night.  In  the  eager  and  curious  Jackson  he  had  a  com 
panion  to  his  mind,  who  stimulated  in  him  a  certain  child 
like  vanity. 

"Hello,  Ma' tine,"  he  said,  "ye 're  gittin'  tired  o'  me,  I 
reckon,  ye're  off  so  much.  I  don't  keer.  This  yere  Jack 
son's  a  lively  cuss,  en  I  'low  we'll  chin  till  mawnin'." 

"Yes,  Nichol,  Mr.  Jackson  is  a  good  friend  of  yours; 
and  here  is  another  man  who  is  more  than  a  friend.  You 
remember  what  the  surgeon  at  the  hospital  said  to  you  ?" 

"I  reckon,"  replied  Nichol,  anxiously.  "Hain't  I 
minded  yer  tetotally  ?' ' 

"Yes,  you  have  done  very  well  indeed — remarkably  well, 
since  you  knew  I  was  not  a  doctor.  Now  this  man  is  a  doc 
tor — the  doctor  I  was  to  bring  you  to.  You  won't  have  to 
mind  me  any  more,  but  you  must  mind  this  man,  Dr. 
Barnes,  in  all  respects,  just  as  you  did  the  doctors  in  the 


136  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

hospitals.  As  long  as  you  obey  him  carefully  he  will  be 
very  good  to  you." 

"Oh,  I'll  mind,  Doctor,"  said  Nichol,  rising  and  assum 
ing  the  respectful  attitude  of  a  hospital  nurse.  "We  uns 
wuz  soon  larned  that 't  wuzn't  healthy  to  go  agin  the  doctor. 
When  I  wuz  Yankee  Blank,  'fo'  I  got  ter  be  cap'n,  I  forgot 
ter  give  a  Johnny  a  doze  o'  med'cine,  en  I'm  doggoned  ef 
the  doctor  uidn't  mek  me  tek  it  myse'f.  Gee  wiz!  sech  a 
time  ez  I  had!  Hain't  give  the  doctors  no  trouble  sence. " 

"All  right,  Captain  Nichol,"  said  Dr.  Barnes,  quietly, 
*'I  understand  my  duties,  and  I  see  that  you  understand 
yours.  As  you  say,  doctors  must  be  obeyed,  and  I  already 
see  that  you  won't  make  me  or  yourself  any  trouble.  Good 
night,  Hobart,  I'm  in  charge  now." 

"Good-night,  Doctor.  Mr.  Jackson,  I'm  sure  you  will 
carry  out  Dr.  Barnes'  wishes  implicitly." 

"Yer'd  better,  Jackson,"  said  Nichol,  giving  him  a 
wink.  "A  doctor  kin  give  yer  high  ole  jinks  ef  ye're  not 
keerful." 

Martine  now  obeyed  the  instinct  often  so  powerful  in  the 
human  breast  as  well  as  in  dumb  animals,  and  sought  the 
covert,  the  refuge  of  his  home,  caring  little  whether  he  was 
to  live  or  die.  When  he  saw  the  lighted  windows  of  Mr. 
Kemble's  residence,  he  moaned  as  if  in  physical  pain.  A 
sudden  and  immeasurable  longing  to  see,  to  speak  with 
Helen  once  before  she  was  again  irrevocably  committed  to 
Nichol,  possessed  him.  He  even  went  to  her  gate  to  carry 
out  his  impulse,  then  curbed  himself  and  returned  resolutely 
to  his  dwelling.  As  soon  as  his  step  was  on  the  porch,  the 
door  opened  and  Mr.  Kemble  gave  him  the  warm  grasp  of 
friendship.  Without  a  word,  the  two  men  entered  the 
sitting-room,  sat  down  by  the  ruddy  fire,  and  looked  at 
each  other,  Martine  with  intense,  questioning  anxiety  in  his 
haggard  face.  The  banker  nodded  gravely  as  he  said, 
"Yes,  she  knows." 

"It's  as  I  said  it  would  be?"  Martine  added  huskily, 
after  a  moment  or  two. 


FOUND    YET  LOST  137 

"Well,  my  friend,  she  said  you  would  understand  her 
better  than  any  one  else.  She  wrote  you  this  note." 

Marline's  hands  so  trembled  that  he  could  scarcely  break 
the  seal.  He  sat  looking  at  the  tear-blurred  words  some 
little  time,  and  grew  evidently  calmer,  then  faltered,  "Yes, 
it's  well  to  remember  God  at  such  a  time.  He  has  laid 
heavy  burdens  upon  me.  He  is  responsible  for  them,  not  I. 
If  I  break,  He  also  will  be  responsible." 

"Hobart,"  said  Mr.  Kemble,  earnestly,  "you  must  not 
break  under  this,  for  our  sake  as  well  as  your  own.  I  have 
the  presentiment  that  we  shall  all  need  you  yet,  my  poor 
girl  perhaps  most  of  all.  She  doesn't,  she  can't  realize  it. 
Now,  the  dead  is  alive  again.  Old  girlish  impulses  and 
feelings  are  asserting  themselves.  As  is  natural,  she  is 
deeply  excited;  but  this  tidal  wave  of  feeling  will  pass, 
and  then  she  will  have  to  face  both  the  past  and  future. 
I  know  her  well  enough  to  be  sure  she  could  never  be 
happy  if  this  thing  wrecked  you.  And  then,  Hobart," 
and  the  old  man  sank  his  voice  to  a  whisper,  "suppose 
— suppose  Nichol  continues  the  same." 

"He  cannot,"  cried  Martine,  almost  desperately.  "Oh, 
Mr.  Kemble,  don't  suggest  any  hope  for  me.  My  heart 
tells  me  there  is  none,  that  there  should  not  be  any.  No, 
she  loved  him  as  I  have  loved  her  from  childhood.  She 
is  right.  I  do  understand  her  so  well  that  1  know  what  the 
future  will  be." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Kemble,  firmly,  as  he  rose,  "she  shall 
never  marry  him  as  he  is,  with  my  consent.  I  don't  feel 
your  confidence  about  Helen's  power  to  restore  him.  I  tell 
you,  Hobart,  I'm  in  sore  straits.  Helen  is  the  apple  of  my 
eye.  She  is  the  treasure  of  our  old  age.  God  knows  I  re 
member  what  you  have  done  for  her  and  for  us  in  the  past; 
and  1  feel  that  we  shall  need  you  in  the  future.  You've 
become  like  a  son  to  mother  and  me,  and  you  must  stand  by 
us  still.  Our  need  will  keep  you  up  and  rally  you  better 
than  all  Dr.  Barnes'  medicine.  I  know  you  well  enough  to 
know  that.  But  take  the  medicine  all  the  same;  and  above 


138  TAKEN   ALIVE:   AND   OTHER    STORIES 

all  things,  don't  give  way  to  anything  like  recklessness  and 
despair.  As  you  say,  God  has  imposed  the  burden.  Let 
him  give  you  the  strength  to  bear  it,  and  other  people's 
burdens  too,  as  you  have  in  the  past.  I  must  go  now. 
Don't  fail  me." 

Wise  old  Mr.  Keinble  had  indeed  proved  the  better  phy 
sician.  His  misgivings,  fears,  and  needs,  combined  with 
his  honest  affection,  had  checked  the  cold,  bitter  flood  of 
despair  which  had  been  overwhelming  Martine.  The  mor 
bid  impression  that  he  would  be  only  another  complication, 
and  of  necessity  an  embarrassment  to  Helen  and  her  family, 
was  in  a  measure  removed.  Mere  words  of  general  con 
dolence  would  not  have  helped  him;  an  appeal  like  that 
to  the  exhausted  soldier,  and  the  thought  that  the  battle 
for  him  was  not  yet  over,  stirred  the  deep  springs  of  his 
nature  and  slowly  kindled  the  purpose  to  rally  and  be 
ready.  He  rose,  ate  a  little  of  the  food,  drank  the  wine, 
then  looked  around  the  beautiful  apartment  prepared  for 
her  who  was  to  have  been  his  wife,  "I  have  grown  weak 
and  reckless,"  he  said.  "I  ought  to  have  known  her  well 
enough — I  do  know  her  so  well — as  to  be  sure  that  I  would 
cloud  her  happiness  if  this  thing  destroyed  me." 


FOUND    YET  LOST  139 


M' 


CHAPTER  XII 

"YOU  MUST  REMEMBER" 

R.  AND  MRS.  NICHOL  wonderingly  yet  promptly 
complied  with  the  request  for  their  presence,  mean 
time  casting  about  in  their  minds  as  to  the  identity 
of  the  relative  who  had  summoned  them  so  unexpected. 
Mr.  Kemble  arrived  at  the  hotel  at  about  the  same  moment 
as  they  did,  and  Jackson  was  instructed  to  keep  the  carriage 
in  waiting.  "It  was  I  who  sent  for  you  and  your  wife," 
said  the  banker.  "Mr.  Martine,  if  possible,  would  have 
given  you  cause  for  a  great  joy  only;  but  I  fear  it  must 
be  tempered  with  an  anxiety  which  I  trust  will  not  be  long 
continued;"  and  he  led  the  way  into  the  parlor. 

"Is  it — can  it  be  about  Albert?"  asked  Mrs.  Nichol, 
trembling,  and  sinking  into  a  chair. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Nichol.  Try  to  keep  your  fortitude,  for 
perhaps  his  welfare  depends  upon  it." 

"Oh,  God  be  praised!  The  hope  of  this  never  wholly 
left  me,  because  they  didn't  find  his  body." 

Dr.  Barnes  came  down  at  once,  and  with  Mr.  Kemble 
tried  to  soothe  the  strong  emotions  of  the  parents,  while  at 
the  same  time  enlightening  them  as  to  their  son's  discovery 
and  condition. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Nichol,  in  strong  emphasis;  "Hobart 
Martine  is  one  of  a  million." 

"I  think  he  ought  to  have  brought  Albert  right  to  me 
first,"  Mrs.  Nichol  added,  shaking  her  head  and  wiping  her 
eyes.  "After  all,  a  mother's  claim — " 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Nichol,"  interrupted  Dr.  Barnes,  "there 


140  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

was  no  thought  of  undervaluing  your  claim  on  the  part  of 
our  friend  Hobart.  He  has  taken  what  he  believed,  and 
what  physicians  led  him  to  believe,  was  the  best  course  to 
restore  your  son.  Besides,  Mr.  Martine  is  a  very  sick  man. 
Even  now  he  needs  my  attention  more  than  Captain  Nichol. 
You  must  realize  that  he  was  to  have  married  Miss  Kemble 
to-day;  yet  he  brings  back  your  son,  sends  for  Mr.  Kemble 
in  order  that  his  daughter,  as  soon  as  she  can  realize  the 
strange  truth,  may  exert  her  power.  He  himself  has  not 
seen  the  girl  who  was  to  have  been  his  bride." 

"Wife,  wife,"  said  Mr.  Nichol,  brokingly,  "no  mortal 
man  could  do  more  for  us  than  Hobart  Martine,  God  bless 
him!" 

"Mrs.  Nichol,"  began  Mr.  Kemble,  "my  wife  and  Helen 
both  unite  in  the  request  that  you  and  your  husband  bring 
your  son  at  once  to  our  house;  perhaps  you  would  rather 
meet  him  in  the  privacy — ' ' 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  she  cried,  "I  cannot  wait.  Please  do  not 
think  I  am  insensible  to  all  this  well-meant  kindness;  but  a 
mother's  heart  cannot  wait.  He'll  know  me — me  who  bore 
him  and  carried  him  on  my  breast" 

"Mrs.  Nichol,  you  shall  see  him  at  once,"  said  the  doc 
tor.  "I  hope  it  will  be  as  you  say;  but  I'm  compelled  to 
tell  you  that  you  may  be  disappointed.  There's  no  cer 
tainty  that  this  trouble  will  pass  away  at  once  under  any 
one's  influence.  You  and  your  husband  come  with  me. 
Mr.  Kemble,  I  will  send  Jackson  down,  and  so  secure  the 
privacy  which  you  would  kindly  provide.  I  will  be  pres 
ent,  for  I  may  be  needed." 

He  led  the  way,  the  mother  following  with  the  impetu 
osity  and  abandon  of  maternal  love,  and  the  father  with 
stronger  and  stranger  emotions  than  he  had  ever  known, 
but  restrained  in  a  manner  natural  to  a  quiet,  reticent  man. 
They  were  about  to  greet  one  on  whom  they  had  once  cen 
tred  their  chief  hopes  and  affection,  yet  long  mourned  as 
dead.  It  is  hard  to  imagine  the  wild  tumult  of  their  feel 
ings.  Not  merely  by  words,  but  chiefly  by  impulse,  imme- 


FOUND    YET   LOST  141 

diate  action,  could  they  reveal  how  profoundly  they  were 
moved. 

With  kindly  intention,  as  he  opened  the  door  of  the 
apartment,  the  doctor  began,  "Mr.  Jackson,  please  leave 
us  a  few — " 

Mrs.  Nichol  saw  her  son  and  rushed  upon  him,  crying, 
"Albert,  Albert!"  It  was  enough  at  that  moment  that  she 
recognized  him;  and  the  thought  that  he  would  not  recog 
nize  her  was  banished.  With  an  intuition  of  heart  beyond 
all  reasoning,  she  felt  that  he  who  had  drawn  his  life  from 
her  must  know  her  and  respond  to  nature's  first  strong 
tie. 

In  surprise,  Nichol  had  risen,  then  was  embarrassed  to 
find  an  elderly  woman  sobbing  on  his  breast  and  addressing 
him  in  broken,  endearing  words  by  a  name  utterly  unfamil 
iar.  He  looked  wonderingly  at  his  father,  who  stood  near, 
trembling  and  regarding  him  through  tear-dimmed  eyes 
with  an  affectionate  interest,  impressive  even  to  his  limited 
perceptions. 

"Doctor,"  he  began  over  his  mother's  head,  "what  in 
thunder  does  all  this  here  mean?  Me 'n'  Jackson  was 
chinnin1  comft'bly,  when  sud'n  you  uns  let  loose  on  me 
two  crazy  old  parties  I  never  seed  ner  yeared  on.  Never 
had  folks  go  on  so  'bout  me  befo'.  Beats  even  that  Hob't 
Ma' tine, "  and  he  showed  signs  of  rising  irritation. 

"Albert,  Albert!"  almost  shrieked  Mrs.  Nichol,  "don't 
you  know  me — me,  your  own  mother?" 

"Naw." 

At  the  half-indignant,  incredulous  tone,  yet  more  than 
all  at  the  strange  accent  and  form  of  this  negative,  the  poor 
woman  was  almost  beside  herself.  "Merciful  God!"  she 
cried,  "this  cannot  be;"  and  she  sank  into  a  chair,  sobbing 
almost  hysterically. 

For  reasons  of  his  own,  Dr.  Barnes  did  not  interfere. 
Nature  in  powerful  manifestations  was  actuating  the 
parents;  and  he  decided,  now  that  things  had  gone  so 
far,  to  let  the  entire  energy  of  uncurbed  emotion,  com- 


142  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

bined  with  all  the  mysterious  affinity  of  the  closest  kinship, 
exert  its  influence  on  the  clogged  brain  of  his  patient. 

For  a  few  moments  Mrs.  Nichol  was  too  greatly  over 
come  to  comprehend  anything  clearly;  her  husband,  on  the 
other  band,  was  simply  wrought  up  to  his  highest  capacity 
for  action.  His  old  instinct  of  authority  returned,  and  he 
seized  his  son's  hand  and  began,  "Now,  see  here,  Albert, 
you  were  wounded  in  your  head — " 

"Yes,  right  yere,"  interrupted  Nichol,  pointing  to  his 
scar.  "I  knows  all  'bout  that,  but  I  don't  like  these  goin's 
on,  ez  ef  I  wuz  a  nachel-bawn  fool,  en  had  ter  bleve  all 
folks  sez.  I've  been  taken  in  too  often.  When  I  wuz  with 
the  Johnnies  they'd  say  ter  me,  'Yankee  Blank,  see  that  ar 
critter?  That's  a  elephant. '  When  I'd  call  it  a  elephant, 
they'd  larf  an'  larf  till  I  flattened  out  one  feller's  nose.  I 
dunno  nothin'  'bout  elephants;  but  the  critter  they  pin  ted 
at  wuz  a  cow.  Then  one  day  they  set  me  ter  scrubbin'  a 
nigger  to  mek  'im  white,  en  all  sech  doin's,  till  -the  head- 
doctor  stopped  the  hull  blamed  nonsense.  S'pose  I  be  a 
cur'ous  chap.  I  ain't  a  nachel-bawn  ijit.  When  folks  begin 
ter  go  on,  en  do  en  say  things  I  kyant  see  through,  then  I 
stands  off  en  sez,  'Lemme  'lone.'  The  hospital  doctors 
wouldn't  'low  any  foolin'  with  me  't  all." 

"I'm  not  allowing  any  fooling  with  you,"  said  Dr. 
Barnes,  firmly.  "I  wish  you  to  listen  to  that  man  and 
woman,  and  believe  all  they  say.  The  hospital  doctors 
would  give  you  the  same  orders." 

"All  right,  then,"  assented  Nichol,  with  a  sort  of  grim 
ace  of  resignation.  "Fire  away,  old  man,  an'  git  through 
with  yer  yarn  so  Jackson  kin  come  back.  1  wish  this 
woman  wouldn't  take  on  so.  Hit  makes  me  orful  oncom- 
f't'ble,  doggoned  ef  hit  don't." 

The  rapid  and  peculiar  utterance,  the  seemingly  unfeel 
ing  words  of  his  son,  stung  the  father  into  an  ecstasy  of  grief 
akin  to  anger.  A  man  stood  before  him,  as  clearly  recog 
nized  as  his  own  image  in  a  mirror.  The  captain  was  not 
out  of  his  mind  in  any  familiar  sense  of  the  word;  he  re- 


FOUND    YET  LOST  143 

membered  distinctly  what  had  happened  for  months  past. 
He  must  recall,  he  must  be  made  to  recollect  the  vital 
truths  of  his  life  on  which  not  only  his  happiness  but  that 
of  others  depended.  Although  totally  ignorant  of  what  the 
wisest  can  explain  but  vaguely,  Mr.  Nichol  was  bent  on 
restoring  his  son  by  the  sheer  force  of  will,  making  him 
remember  by  telling  him  what  he  should  and  must  recall. 
This  he  tried  to  do  with  strong,  eager  insistence.  "Why, 
Albert,"  he  urged,  "I'm  your  father;  and  that's  your 
mother." 

Nichol  shook  his  head  and  looked  at  the  doctor,  who 
added  gravely,  "That's  all  true." 

"Yes,"  resumed  Mr.  Nichol,  with  an  energy  and  earnest 
ness  of  utterance  which  compelled  attention.  "Now  listen 
to  reason.  As  I  was  saying,  you  were  wounded  in  the  head, 
and  you  have  forgotten  what  happened  before  you  were 
hurt.  But  you  must  remember,  you  must,  indeed,  or  you 
will  break  your  mother's  heart  and  mine,  too." 

"But  I  tell  yer,  I  kyant  reckerlect  a  thing  befo'  I  kinder 
waked  up  in  the  hospital,  en  the  Johnnies  call  me  Yankee 
Blank.  I  jes'  wish  folks  would  lemme  alone  on  that  pint. 
Hit  allus  bothers  me  en  makes  me  mad.  How  kin  I  recker 
lect  when  I  kyant?"  and  he  began  to  show  signs  of  strong 
vexation. 

Dr.  Barnes  was  about  to  interfere  when  Mrs.  Nichol, 
who  had  grown  calmer,  rose,  took  her  son's  hand,  and  said 
brokenly:  "Albert,  look  me  in  the  face,  your  mother's  face, 
and  try,  try  with  all  your  heart  and  soul  and  mind.  Don't 
you  remember  me?" 

It  was  evident  that  her  son  did  try.  His  brow  wrinkled 
in  the  perplexed  effort,  and  he  looked  at  her  fixedly  for  a 
moment  or  more;  but  no  magnetic  current  from  his  mother's 
hand,  no  suggestion  of  the  dear  features  which  had  bent 
over  him  in  childhood  and  turned  toward  him  in  love  and 
pride  through  subsequent  years  found  anything  in  his 
arrested  consciousness  answering  to  her  appeal. 

The  effort  and  its  failure  only  irritated  him,  and  he  broke 


144  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

out:  "Now  look  yere,  I  be  as  I  be.  What's  the  use  of  all 
these  goin's  on?  Doctor,  if  you  sez  these  folks  are  my 
father  and  mother,  so  be  it.  I'm  learning  somethin'  new- 
all  the  time.  This  ain't  no  mo'  quar,  I  a' pose,  than  some 
other  things.  I've  got  to  mind  a  doctor,  for  I've  learned 
that  much  ef  I  hain't  nuthin'  else,  but  I  want  you  uns  to 
know  that  I  won't  stan'  no  mo'  foolin'.  Doctors  don't  fool 
me,  en  they've  got  the  po'r  ter  mek  a  feller  do  ez  they  sez, 
but  other  folks  is  got  ter  be  keerful  how  they  uses  me." 

Mrs.  Nichol  again  sank  into  her  chair  and  wept  bitterly ; 
her  husband  at  last  remained  silent  in  a  sort  of  inward,  im 
potent  rage  of  grief.  There  was  their  son,  alive  and  in 
physical  health,  yet  between  him  and  them  was  a  viewless 
barrier  which  they  could  not  break  through. 

The  strange  complications,  the  sad  thwartings  of  hope 
which  must  result  unless  he  was  restored,  began  to  loom 
already  in  the  future. 

Dr.  Barnes  now  came  forward  and  said:  "Captain  Nichol, 
you  are  as  you  are  at  this  moment,  but  you  must  know  that 
you  are  not  what  you  were  once.  We  are  trying  to  restore 
you  to  your  old  self.  You'd  be  a  great  deal  better  off  if  we 
succeed.  You  must  help  us  all  you  can.  You  must  be 
patient,  and  try  all  the  time  to  recollect  You  know  I  am 
not  deceiving  you,  but  seeking  to  help  you.  You  don't  like 
this.  That  doesn't  matter.  Didn't  you  see  doctors  do  many 
things  in  hospitals  which  the  patients  didn't  like?" 

"I  reckon,"  replied  Nichol,  growing  reasonable  at  once 
when  brought  on  familiar  ground. 

"Well,  you  are  my  patient.  I  may  have  to  do  some  dis 
agreeable  things,  but  they  won't  hurt  you.  It  won't  be  like 
taking  off  an  arm  or  a  leg.  You  have  seen  that  done,  I 
suppose?" 

"You  bet!"  was  the  eager,  proud  reply.  "I  used  to 
hold  the  fellows  when  they  squirmed." 

"Now  hold  yourself.  Be  patient  and  good-natured. 
While  we  are  about  it,  I  want  to  make  every  appeal  pos 
sible  to  your  lost  memory,  and  I  order  you  to  keep  on 


FOUND    YET   LOST  146 

trying  to  remember  till  I  say:  'Through  for  the  present.' 
If  we  succeed,  you'll  thank  me  all  the  days  of  your  life. 
Anyhow,  you  must  do  as  I  say." 

"Oh,  I  know  that." 

"Well,  then,  your  name  is  Captain  Nichol.  This  is  Mr. 
Nichol,  you  father;  this  lady  is  your  mother.  Call  them 
father  and  mother  when  you  speak  to  them.  Always  speak 
kindly  and  pleasantly.  They'll  take  you  to  a  pleasant  home 
when  I'm  through  with  you,  and  you  must  mind  them. 
They'll  be  good  to  you  everyway." 

Nichol  grinned  acquiescence  and  said:  "All  right, 
Doctor." 

"Now  you  show  your  good  sense.  We'll  have  you 
sound  and  happy  yet."  The  doctor  thought  a  moment 
and  then  asked:  "Mr.  Nichol,  I  suppose  that  after  our  visit 
to  Mr.  Kemble,  you  and  your  wife  would  prefer  to  take 
your  son  home  with  you?" 

"Certainly,"  was  the  prompt  response. 

"I  would  advise  you  to  do  so.  After  our  next  effort, 
however  it  results,  we  all  will  need  rest  and  time  for 
thought.  Captain,  remain  here  a  few  moments  with  your 
father  and  mother.  Listen  good-naturedly  and  answer 
pleasantly  to  whatever  they  may  say  to  you.  I  will  be 
back  soon." 


7  —ROE— XI 


146  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 


CHAPTER   XIII 
"I'M  HELEN" 

DR.  BARNES  descended  the  stairs  to  the  parlor  where 
Mr.  Kemble  impatiently  awaited  him.  "Well?" 
said  the  banker,  anxiously. 

"I  will  explain  while  on  the  way  to  your  house.  The 
carriage  is  still  ready,  I  suppose  ?"  to  Jackson. 

"Yes,"  was  the  eager  reply;  "how  did  he  take  the  meet 
ing  of  his  parents  ?" 

"In  the  main  as  I  feared.  He  does  not  know  them  yet. 
Mr.  Jackson,  you  and  I  are  somewhat  alike  in  one  of  our 
duties.  I  never  talk  about  my  patients.  If  I  did,  I  ought 
to  be  drummed  out  of  the  town  instead  of  ever  being  called 
upon  again.  Of  course  you  feel  that  you  should  not  talk 
about  your  guests.  You  can  understand  why  the  parties 
concerned  in  this  matter  would  not  wish  to  have  it  dis 
cussed  in  the  village. ' ' 

"Certainly,  Doctor,  certainly,"  replied  Jackson,  redden 
ing,  for  he  knew  something  of  his  reputation  for  gossip. 
"This  is  no  ordinary  case." 

"No,  it  is  not.  Captain  Nichol  and  his  friends  would 
never  forgive  any  one  who  did  not  do  right  by  them  now. 
In  about  fifteen  minutes  or  so  I  will  return.  Have  the  car 
riage  wait  for  me  at  Mr.  Kemble's  till  again  wanted.  You 
may  go  back  to  the  captain  and  do  your  best  to  keep  him 
wide-awake." 

Jackson  accompanied  them  to  the  conveyance  and  said 
to  the  man  on  the  box:  "Obey  all  Dr.  Barnes's  orders." 

As   soon  as   the   two  men  were   seated,    the   physician 


FOUND    YET   LOST  147 

began:  "Our  first  test  has  failed  utterly;"  and  he  briefly 
narrated  what  had  occurred,  concluding,  "I  fear  your 
daughter  will  have  no  better  success.  Still,  it  is  perhaps 
wise  to  do  all  we  can,  on  the  theory  that  these  sudden 
shocks  may  start  up  the  machinery  of  memory.  Nichol  is 
excited;  such  powers  as  he  possesses  are  stimulated  to  their 
highest  activity,  and  he  is  evidently  making  a  strong  effort 
to  recall  the  past,  I  therefore  now  deem  it  best  to  increase 
the  pressure  on  his  brain  to  the  utmost.  If  the  obstruction 
does  not  give  way,  I  see  no  other  course  than  to  employ  the 
skill  of  experts  and  trust  to  the  healing  processes  of  time." 

"I  am  awfully  perplexed,  Doctor,"  was  the  reply.  "You 
must  be  firm  with  me  on  one  point,  and  you  know  your 
opinion  will  have  great  weight.  Under  no  sentimental  sense 
of  duty,  or  even  of  affection,  must  Helen  marry  Nichol 
unless  he  is  fully  restored  and  given  time  to  prove  there  is 
no  likelihood  of  any  return  of  this  infirmity." 

"I  agree  with  you  emphatically.  There  is  no  reason  for 
such  self-sacrifice  on  your  daughter's  part.  Nichol  would 
not  appreciate  it.  He  is  not  an  invalid;  on  the  contrary, 
a  strong,  muscular  man,  abundantly  able  to  take  care  of 
himself  under  the  management  of  his  family." 

"He  has  my  profound  sympathy,"  continued  Mr.  Kern- 
ble,  "but  giving  that  unstintedly  is  a  very  different  thing 
from  giving  him  my  only  child." 

"Certainly.  Perhaps  we  need  not  say  very  much  to  Miss 
Helen  on  this  point  at  present.  Unless  he  becomes  his  old 
self  she  will  feel  that  she  has  lost  him  more  truly  than  if  he 
were  actually  dead.  The  only  deeply  perplexing  feature  in 
the  case  is  its  uncertainty.  He  may  be  all  right  before 
morning,  and  he  may  never  recall  a  thing  that  happened 
before  the  explosion  of  that  shell." 

The  carriage  stopped,  and  Mr.  Kemble  hastily  led  the 
way  to  his  dwelling.  Helen  met  them  at  the  door.  "Oh, 
how  long  you  have  been!"  she  protested;  "I've  just  been 
tortured  by  suspense." 

Dr.  Barnes  took  her  by  the  hand  and  led  her  to  the  par- 


148  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

lor.  "Miss  Helen,"  he  said  gravely,  "if  you  are  not  careful 
you  will  be  another  patient  on  my  hands.  Sad  as  is  Captain 
Nichol's  case,  he  at  least  obeys  me  implicitly;  so  must  you. 
Your  face  is  flushed,  your  pulse  feverish,  and — " 

"Doctor, "  cried  the  girl,  "you  can't  touch  the  disease  till 
you  remove  the  cause.  Why  is  he  kept  so  long  from  me  ?" 

"Helen,  child,  you.  must  believe  that  the  doctor — that  we 
all — are  doing  our  best  for  you  and  Nichol,"  said  Mr.  Kem- 
ble,  anxiously.  "His  father  and  mother  came  to  the  hotel. 
It  was  but  natural  that  they  should  wish  to  see  him  at  once. 
How  would  we  feel  ?" 

"Come,  Helen,  dear,  you  must  try  to  be  more  calm," 
urged  the  mother,  gently,  with  her  arm  around  her  daugh 
ter's  neck.  "Doctor,  can't  you  give  her  something  to  quiet 
her  nerves?" 

"Miss  Helen,  like  the  captain,  is  going  to  do  just  as  I 
say,  aren't  you  ?  You  can  do  more  for  yourself  than  I  can 
do  for  you.  Kemember,  you  must  act  intelligently  and  co 
operate  with  me.  His  father,  and  especially  his  mother, 
exhibited  the  utmost  degree  of  emotion  and  made  the 
strongest  appeals  without  effect.  Now  we  must  try  differ 
ent  tactics.  All  must  be  quiet  and  nothing  occur  to  confuse 
or  irritate  him. ' ' 

"Ah,  how  little  you  all  understand  me!  The  moment 
you  give  me  a  chance  to  act  I  can  be  as  calm  as  you  are. 
It's  this  waiting,  this  torturing  suspense  that  I  cannot  en 
dure.  Hobart  would  not  have  permitted  it.  He  knows, 
he  understands.  Every  effort  will  fail  till  Albert  sees  me. 
It  will  be  a  cause  for  lasting  gratitude  to  us  both  that  I 
should  be  the  one  to  restore  him.  Now  let  me  manage. 
My  heart  will  guide  me  better  than  your  science." 

"What  will  you  do?"  inquired  her  father,  in  deep 
solicitude. 

"See,  here's  his  picture,"  she  replied,  taking  it  from  a 
table  near — "the  one  he  gave  me  just  before  he  marched 
away.  Let  him  look  at  that  and  recall  himself.  Then  I 
will  enter.  Oh,  I've  planned  it  all!  My  self-control  will 


FOUND    YET   LOST  149 

be  perfect.  Would  I  deserve  the  name  of  woman  if  I  were 
weak  or  hysterical  ?  No,  I  would  do  my  best  to  rescue  any 
man  from  such  a  misfortune,  much  more  Albert,  who  has 
such  sacred  claims." 

"That's  a  good  idea  of  yours  about  the  photograph. 
Well,  I  guess  I  must  let  Nature  have  her  own  way  again, 
only  in  this  instance  I  advise  quiet  methods." 

"Trust  me,  Doctor,  and  you  won't  regret  it." 

"Nerve  yourself  then  to  do  your  best,  but  prepare  to  be 
disappointed  for  the  present.  I  do  not  and  cannot  share  in 
your  confidence." 

"Of  course  you  cannot,"  she  said,  with  a  smile  which 
illuminated  her  face  into  rare  beauty.  "Only  love  and 
faith  could  create  my  confidence." 

"Miss  Helen,"  was  the  grave  response,  "would  love  and 
faith  restore  Captain  Nic hoi's  right  arm  if  he  had  lost 
it?" 

"Oh,  but  that's  different,"  she  faltered. 

"I  don't  know  whether  it  is  or  not.  We  are  experiment 
ing.  .There  may  be  a  physical  cause  obstructing  memory 
which  neither  you  nor  any  one  can  now  remove.  Kindness 
only  leads  me  to  temper  your  hope. ' ' 

"Doctor,"  she  said  half -desperately,  "it  is  not  hope;  it 
is  belief.  I  could  not  feel  as  I  do  if  I  were  to  be  dis 
appointed." 

"Ah,  Miss  Helen,  disappointment  is  a  very  common 
experience.  I  must  stop  a  moment  and  see  one"  who  has 
learned  this  truth  pretty  thoroughly.  Then  I  will  bring 
Nichol  and  his  parents  at  once." 

Tears  filled  her  eyes.  "Yes,  I  know,"  she  sighed;  "my 
heart  just  bleeds  for  him,  but  I  cannot  help  it.  Were  I  not 
sure  that  Hobart  understands  me  better  than  any  one  else,  I 
should  be  almost  .distracted.  This  very  thought  of  him 
nerves  me.  Think  what  he  did  for  Albert  from  a  hard 
sense  of  duty.  Can  I  fail?  Good- by,  and  please,  please 
hasten." 

Martine  rose  to  greet  the  physician  with  a  clear  eye  and 


150  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

a  resolute  face.  "Why,  why!"  cried  Dr.  Barnes,  cheerily, 
"you  look  a  hundred  per  cent  better.  That  quinine — " 

"There,  Doctor,  I  don't  undervalue  your  drugs;  but 
Mr.  Kemble  has  been  to  see  me  and  appealed  to  me  for  help 
— to  still  be  on  hand  if  needed.  Corne,  I've  had  my  hour 
for  weakness.  I  am  on  the  up-grade  now.  Tell  me  ho'w 
far  the  affair  has  progressed. ' ' 

"Haven't  time,  Hobart.  Since  Mr.  Kemble's  treatment 
is  so  efficacious,  I'll  continue  it.  You  will  be  needed,  you 
will  indeed,  no  matter  how  it  all  turns  out.  I  won't  aban 
don  my  drugs,  either.  Here,  take  this." 

Martine  took  the  medicine  as  administered.  "Now  when 
you  feel  drowsy,  go  to  sleep, ' '  added  the  doctor. 

"Tell  me  one  thing — has  she  seen  him  yet  ?" 

"No;  his  father  and  mother  have,  and  he  does  no-1-  know 
them.  It's  going  to  be  a  question  of  time,  I  fear." 

"Helen  will  restore  him." 

"So  she  believes,  or  tries  to.  I  mercifully  shook  her 
faith  a  little.  Well,  she  feels  for  you,  old  fellow.  The  be 
lief  that  you  understand  her  better  than  any  one  has  great 
sustaining  power. ' ' 

"Say  I  won't  fail  her;  but  I  entreat  that  you  soon  let  me 
know  the  result  of  the  meeting. ' ' 

"I'll  come  in,"  assented  the  doctor,  as  he  hastily  de 
parted.  Then  he  added  sotto  voce,  "If  you  hear  anything 
more  under  twelve  or  fifteen  hours,  I'm  off  my  reckoning." 

Ke- entering  the  carriage,  he  was  driven  rapidly  to  the 
hotel.  Jackson  had  played  his  part,  and  had  easily  induced 
Nichol  to  recount  his  hospital  experience  in  the  presence  of 
his  parents,  who  listened  in  mingled  wonder,  grief,  and 
impotent  protest. 

"Captain,  put  on  your  overcoat  and  hat  and  come  with 
me,"  said  the  doctor,  briskly.  "Your  father  and  mother 
will  go  with  us." 

"Good- by,  Jackson,"  said  Nichol,  cordially.  "Ye' re  a 
lively  cuss,  en  I  hopes  we'll  have  a  chaince  to  chin  agin." 

With  a  blending  of  hope  and  of  fear,  his  parents  followed 


FOUND    YET  LOST  151 

him.  The  terrible  truth  of  his  insensibility  to  all  that  he 
should  recognize  and  remember  became  only  the  more  ap 
palling  as  they  comprehended  it.  While  it  lost  none  of  its 
strangeness,  they  were  compelled  to  face  and  to  accept 
it  as  they  could  not  do  at  first. 

"Now,  Captain,"  said  the  doctor,  after  they  were  seated 
in  the  carriage,  "listen  carefully  to  me.  It  is  necessary  that 
you  recall  what  happened  before  you  were  wounded.  I  tell 
you  that  you  must  do  it  if  you  can,  and  you  know  doctors 
must  be  obeyed." 

"Look  yere,  Doctor,  ain't  I  a- try  in'  ?  but  I  tell  yer  hit's 
like  tryin'  ter  lift  myself  out  o'  my  own  boots." 

"Mind,  now,  I  don't  say  you  must  remember,  only  try 
your  best.  You  can  do  that?" 

"I  reckon." 

"Well,  you  are  going  to  the  house  of  an  old  friend  who 
knew  you  well  before  you  were  hurt.  You  must  pay  close 
heed  to  all  she  says  just  as  you  would  to  me.  You  must 
not  say  any  rude,  bad  words,  such  as  soldiers  often  use,  but 
listen  to  every  word  she  says.  Perhaps  you'll  know  her  as 
soon  as  you  see  her.  Now  I've  prepared  you.  I  won't  be 
far  off." 

"Don't  leave  me,  Doctor.  I  jes'  feels  nachelly  muxed 
up  en  mad  when  folks  pester  me  'bout  what  I  kyant  do." 

"You  must  not  get  angry  now,  I  can  tell  you.  That 
would  never  do  at  all.  I  forbid  it." 

"There,  there  now,  Doctor,  I  won't,  doggone  me  ef  I 
will, ' '  Nichol  protested  anxiously. 

Mr.  Kemble  met  them  at  the  door,  and  the  captain 
recognized  him  instantly. 

"Why,  yere's  that  sensible  ole  feller  what  didn't  want 
to  ast  no  questions,"  he  exclaimed. 

"You  are  right,  Captain  Nichol,  I  have  no  questions  to 
ask." 

"Well,  ef  folks  wuz  all  like  you  I'd  have  a  comf't'ble 
time  " 

"Come  with  me,  Captain,"  said  the  physician,  leading 


152  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

the  way  into  the  parlor.  Mr.  Kemble  silently  ushered  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Nichol  into  the  sitting-room  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  hall  and  placed  them  in  the  care  of  his  wife.  He  then 
went  into  the  back  parlor  in  which  was  Helen,  now  quiet  as 
women  so  often  are  in  emergencies.  Through  a  slight  open 
ing  between  the  sliding- door  she  looked,  with  tightly  clasped 
hands  and  parted  lips,  at  her  lover.  At  first  she  was  con 
scious  of  little  else  except  the  overwhelming  truth  that  be 
fore  her  was  one  she  had  believed  dead.  Then  again  surged 
up  with  blinding  force  the  old  feeling  which  had  possessed 
her  when  she  saw  him  last — when  he  had  impressed  his  fare 
well  kiss  upon  her  lips.  Bemembering  the  time  for  her  to 
act  was  almost  at  hand,  she  became  calm — more  from  the 
womanly  instinct  to  help  him  than  from  the  effort  of  her 
will. 

Dr.  Barnes  said  to  Nichol,  "Look  around.  Don't  you 
think  you  have  seen  this  room  before?  Take  your  time 
and  try  to  remember." 

The  captain  did  as  he  was  bidden,  but  soon  shook  his 
head.  "Hit's  right  purty,  but  I  don't  reckerlect. " 

"Well,  sit  down  here,  then,  and  look  at  that  picture. 
Who  is  it?" 

"Why,  hit's  me — me  dressed  up  as  cap'n,"  ejaculated 
Nichol,  delightedly. 

"Yes,  that  was  the  way  you  looked  and  dressed  before 
you  were  wounded. ' ' 

"How  yer  talk!  This  beats  anythin'  I  ever  yeared  from 
the  Johnnies." 

"Now,  Captain  Nichol,  you  see  we  are  not  deceiving 
you.  We  called  you  captain.  There's  your  likeness,  taken 
before  you  were  hurt  and  lost  your  memory,  and  you  can 
see  for  yourself  that  you  were  a  captain.  You  must  think 
how  much  there  is  for  you  to  try  to  remember.  Before  you 
went  to  the  war,  long  before  you  got  hurt,  you  gave  this 
likeness  of  yourself  to  a  young  lady  that  you  thought  a 
great  deal  of.  Can't  you  recall  something  about  it?" 

Nichol  wrinkled  his  scarred  forehead,  scratched  his  head, 


FOUND    YET    LOST  153 

and  hitched  uneasily  in  his  chair,  evidently  making  a  vain 
effort  to  penetrate  the  gloom  back  of  that  vague  awakening 
in  the  Southern  hospital.  At  last  he  broke  out  in  his  usual 
irritation,  "Naw,  I  kyant,  doggon — " 

"flush!  you  must  not  use  that  word  here.  Don't  be 
discouraged.  You  are  trying;  that's  all  1  ask,"  and  the 
doctor  laid  a  soothing  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "Now,  Cap 
tain,  I'll  just  step  in  the  next  room.  You  think  quietly  as 
you  can  about  the  young  lady  to  whom  you  gave  that  pic 
ture  of  yourself. " 

Nichol  was  immensely  pleased  with  his  photograph,  and 
looked  at  it  in  all  its  lights.  While  thus  gratifying  a  sort 
of  childish  vanity,  Helen  entered  noiselessly,  her  blue  eyes, 
doubly  luminous  from  the  pallor  of  her  face,  shining  like 
sapphires.  So  intent  was  her  gaze  that  one  might  think 
it  would  "kindle  a  soul  under  the  ribs  of  death."  . 

At  last  Nichol  became  conscious  of  her  presence  and 
started,  exclaiming,  "Why,  there  she  is  herself." 

"  Oh,  Albert,  you  do  know  me,"  cried  the  girl,  rushing 
toward  him  with  outstretched  hand. 

He  took  it  unhesitatingly,  saying  with  a  pleased  wonder, 
"Well,  I  reckon  I'm  comin'  round.  Yer  the  young  lady 
I  give  this  picture  to  ?' ' 

"I'm  Helen,"  she  breathed,  with  an  indescribable  accent 
of  tenderness  and  gladness. 

"Why,  cert'ny.     The  doctor  tole  me  'bout  you." 

"But  you  remember  me  yourself?"  she  pleaded.  "You 
remember  what  you  said  to  me  when  you  gave  me  this  pic 
ture?"  and  she  looked  into  his  eyes  with  an  expression 
which  kindled  even  his  dull  senses. 

"Oh,  shucks!"  he  said  slowly,  "I  wish  I  could.  I'd 
like  ter  'blige  yer,  fer  ye're  right  purty,  en  I  am  a-tryin'  ter 
mind  the  doctor. ' ' 

Such  a  sigh  escaped  her  that  one  might  think  her  heart 
and  hope  were  going  with  it.  The  supreme  moment  of  meet 
ing  had  corne  and  gone,  and  he  did  not  know  her;  she  saw 
and  felt  in  her  inmost  soul  that  he  did  not.  The  brief  and 


154  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

illusive  gleam  into  the  past  was  projected  only  from  the 
present,  resulting  from  what  he  had  been  told,  not  from 
what  he  recalled. 

She  withdrew  her  hand,  turned  away,  and  for  a  moment 
or  two  her  form  shook  with  sobs  she  could  not  wholly  stifle. 
He  looked  on  perplexed  and  troubled,  then  broke  out,  "I 
JOB'  feels  ez  ef  I'd  split  my  blamed  ole  haid  open — " 

She  checked  him  by  a  gesture.  "Wait,"  she  cried,  "sit 
down."  She  took  a  chair  near  him  and  hastily  wiped  her 
eyes.  "Perhaps  I  can  help  you  remember  me.  You  will 
listen  closely,  will  you  not?" 

"I  be  dog — oh,  I  forgot,"  and  he  looked  toward  the 
back  parlor  apprehensively.  ,  "Yes,  mees,  I'll  do  anythin' 
yer  sez. " 

"We'll,  once  you  were  a  little  boy  only  so  high,  and  I 
was  a  little  girl  only  so  high.  We  both  lived  in  this  village 
and  we  went  to  school  together.  We  studied  out  of  the 
same  books  together.  At  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
school  was  out,  and  then  we  put  our  books  in  our  desks 
and  the  teacher  let  us  go  and  play.  There  was  a  pond  of 
water,  and  it  often  froze  over  with  smooth  black  ice.  You 
and  I  used  to  go  together  to  that  pond;  and  you  would 
fasten  my  skates  on  my  feet — " 

"Hanged  ef  I  wouldn't  do  it  agin,"  he  cried,  greatly 
pleased.  "Yer  beats  'em  all.  Stid  o'  astin'  questions,  yer 
tells  me  all  'bout  what  happened.  Why,  I  kin  reckerlect 
it  all  ef  I'm  tole  often  anuff. " 

With  a  sinking  heart  she  faltered  on,  "Then  you  grew 
older  and  went  away  to  school,  and  I  went  away  to  school. 
We  had  vacations;  we  rode  on  horseback  together.  Well, 
you  grew  to  be  as  tall  as  you  are  now ;  and  then  came  a  war 
and  you  wore  a  captain's  uniform,  like — like  that  you  see  in 
your  likeness,  and — and — "  she  stopped.  Her  rising  color 
became  a  vivid  flush;  she  slowly  rose  as  the  thought  burned 
its  way  into  her  consciousness  that  she  was  virtually  speak 
ing  to  a  stranger.  Her  words  were  bringing  no  gleams  of 
intelligence  into  his  face;  they  were  throwing  no  better,  no 


FOUND    YET  LOST  155 

stronger  light  upon  the  past  than  if  she  were  telling  the 
story  to  a  great  boy.  Yet  he  was  not  a  boy.  A  man's  face 
was  merely  disfigured  (to  her  eyes)  by  a  grin  of  pleasure  in 
stead  of  a  pleased  smile;  and  a  man's  eyes  were  regarding 
her  with  an  unwinking  stare  of  admiration.  She  was  not 
facing  her  old  playmate,  her  old  friend  and  lover,  but  a 
being  whose  only  consciousness  reached  back  but  months, 
through  scenes,  associations  coarse  and  vulgar  like  himself. 
She  felt  this  with  an  intuition  that  was  overwhelming.  She 
could  not  utter  another  syllable,  much  less  speak  of  the 
sacred  love  of  the  past.  "O  God!"  she  moaned  in  her 
heart,  "the  man  has  become  a  living  grave  in  which  his 
old  self  is  buried.  Oh,  this  is  terrible,  terrible!" 

As  the  truth  grew  upon  her  she  sprang  away,  wringing 
her  hands  and  looking  upon  him  with  an  indescribable  ex 
pression  of  pity  and  dread.  "Oh,"  she  now  moaned  aloud, 
"if  he  had  only  come  back  to  me  mutilated  in  body,  help 
less!  but  this  change — " 

She  fled  from  the  room,  and  Nichol  stared  after  her  in 
perplexed  consternation. 


156  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 


CHAPTER    XIV 

( 

"FORWARD!  COMPANY  A" 

WHEN  Mrs.  Kemble  was  left  alone  with  Captain 
Nichol's  parents  in  the  sitting-room,  she  told 
them  of  Helen's  plan  of  employing  the  photo 
graph  in  trying  to  recall  their  son  to  himself.  It  struck 
them  as  an  unusually  effective  method.  Mrs.  Kemble  saw 
that  their  anxiety  was  so  intense  that  it  was  torture  for  them 
to  remain  in  suspense  away  from  the  scene  of  action.  It  may 
be  added  that  her  own  feelings  also  led  her  to  go  with  them 
into  the  back  parlor,  where  all  that  was  said  by  Nichol  and 
her  daughter  could  be  heard.  Her  solicitude  for  Helen  was 
not  less  than  theirs  for  their  son;  and  she  felt  the  girl  might 
need  both  motherly  care  and  counsel.  She  was  opposed 
even  more  strenuously  than  her  husband  to  any  committal 
on  the  daughter's  part  to  her  old  lover  unless  he  should 
become  beyond  all  doubt  his  former  self.  At  best,  it  would 
be  a  heavy  cross  to  give  up  Martine,  who  had  won  her  entire 
affection.  Helen's  heart  presented  a  problem  too  deep  for 
solution.  What  would — what  could — Captain  Nichol  be  to 
her  child  in  his  present  condition,  should  it  continue  ? 

It  was  but  natural,  therefore,  that  she  and  her  husband 
should  listen  to  Helen's  effort  to  awaken  memories  of  the 
past  with  profound  anxiety.  How  far  would  she  go  ?  If 
Nichol  were  able  to  respond  with  no  more  appreciative 
intelligence  than  he  had  thus  far  manifested,  would  a  senti 
ment  of  pity  and  obligation  carry  her  to  the  point  of  accept 
ing  him  as  he  was,  of  devoting  herself  to  one  who,  in  spite 
of  all  their  commiseration  and  endeavors  to  tolerate,  might 
become  a  sort  of  horror  in  their  household!  It  was  with 


FOUND    YET   LOST  157 

immense  relief  that  they  heard  her  falter  in  her  story,  for 
they  quickly  divined  that  there  was  nothing  in  him  which 
responded  to  her  effort.  When  they  heard  her  rise  and 
moan,  "If  he  had  only  come  back  to  me  mutilated  in  body, 
helpless!  but  this  change — "  they  believed  that  she  was 
meeting  the  disappointment  as  they  could  wish. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Nichol  heard  the  words  also,  and  while  in 
a  measure  compelled  to  recognize  their  force,  they  conveyed 
a  meaning  hard  to  accept.  The  appeal  upon  which  so  much 
hope  had  been  built  had  failed.  In  bitterness  of  soul,  the 
conviction  grew  stronger  that  their  once  brave,  keen-minded 
son  would  never  be  much  better  than  an  idiot. 

Then  Helen  appeared  among  them  as  pale,  trembling, 
and  overwhelmed  as  if  she  had  seen  a  spectre.  In  strong 
reaction  from  her  effort  and  blighted  hope  she  was  almost  in 
a  fainting  condition.  Her  mother's  arms  received  her  and 
supported  her  to  a  lounge;  Mrs.  Nichol  gave  way  to  bitter 
weeping;  Mr.  Kemble  wrung  the  father's  hand  in  sympa 
thy,  and  then  at  his  wife's  request  went  for  restoratives. 
Dr.  Barnes  closed  the  sliding- doors  and  prudently  reassured 
Nichol:  "You  have  done  your  best,  Captain,  and  that  is  all 
I  asked  of  you.  Remain  here  quietly  and  look  at  your  pic 
ture  for  a  little  while,  and  then  you  shall  have  a  good  long 
rest." 

"I  did  try,  Doctor,"  protested  Nichol,  anxiously.  "Gee 
wiz!  I  reckon  a  feller  orter  try  ter  please  sech  a  purty 
gyurl.  She  tole  me  lots.  Look  yere,  Doctor,  why  kyan't 
I  be  tole  over  en  over  till  I  reckerlect  it  all  ?" 

"Well,  we'll  see,  Captain.  It's  late  now,  and  we  must 
all  have  a  rest.  Stay  here  till  I  come  for  you. ' ' 

Nichol  was  so  pleased  with  his  photograph  that  he  was 
well  content  in  its  contemplation.  The  physician  now  gave 
his  attention  to  Helen,  who  was  soon  so  far  restored  as  to 
comprehend  her  utter  failure.  Her  distress  was  great  in 
deed,  and  for  a  few  moments  diverted  the  thoughts  of  even 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Nichol  from  their  own  sad  share  in  the 
disappointment. 


158  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

"Oh,  oh!"  sobbed  Helen,  "this  is  the  bitterest  sorrow 
the  war  has  brought  us  yet." 

"Well,  now,  friends,"  said  Dr.  Barnes,  "it's  time  I  had 
my  say  and  gave  my  orders.  You  must  remember  that  I 
have  not  shared  very  fully  in  your  confidence  that  the  cap 
tain  could  be  restored  by  the  appeals  you  have  made;  nei 
ther  do  I  share  in  this  abandonment  to  grief  now.  As  the 
captain  says,  he  is  yet  simply  unable  to  respond.  We  must 
patiently  wait  and  see  what  time  and  medical  skill  can  do 
for  him.  There  is  no  reason  whatever  for  giving  up  hope. 
Mrs.  Kemble,  I  would  advise  you  to  take  Miss  Helen  to  her 
room,  and  you,  Mr.  Nichol,  to  take  your  wife  and  son  home. 
I  will  call  in  the  morning,  and  then  we  can  advise  further." 

His  counsel  was  followed,  the  captain  readily  obeying 
when  told  to  go  with  his  parents.  Then  the  physician 
stepped  over  to  Martine's  cottage  and  found,  as  he  sup 
posed,  that  the  opiate  and  exhausted  nature  had  brought 
merciful  oblivion. 

Jt  was  long  before  Helen  slept,  nor  would  she  take  any 
thing  to  induce  sleep.  She  soon  became  quiet,  kissed  her 
mother,  and  said  she  wished  to  be  alone.  Then  she  tried  to 
look  at  the  problem  in  all  its  aspects,  and  earnestly  asked 
for  divine  guidance.  The  decision  reached  in  the  gray 
dawn  brought  repose  of  mind  and  body. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  Martine  awoke  with 
a  dull  pain  in  his  head  and  heart.  As  the  consciousness  of 
all  that  had  happened  returned,  he  remembered  that  there 
was  good  reason  for  both.  His  faithful  old  domestic  soon 
prepared  a  dainty  meal,  which  aided  in  giving  tone  to  his 
exhausted  system.  Then  he  sat  down  by  his  fire  to  brace 
himself  for  the  tidings  he  expected  to  hear.  Helen's  chair 
was  empty.  It  would  always  be  hers,  but  hope  was  gone 
that  she  would  smile  from  it  upon  him  during  the  long  win 
ter  evenings.  Already  the  room  was  darkening  toward  the 
early  December  twilight,  and  he  felt  that  his  life  was  dark 
ening  in  like  manner.  He  was  no  longer  eager  to  hear  what 
had  occurred.  The  mental  and  physical  sluggishness  which 


FOUND    YET   LOST  159 

possessed  him  was  better  than  sharp  pain;  he  would  learn 
all  soon  enough — the  recognition,  the  beginning  of  a  new 
life  which  inevitably  would  drift  further  and  further  from 
him.  His  best  hope  was  to  get  through  the  time,  to  endure 
patiently  and  shape  his  life  so  as  to  permit  as  little  of  its 
shadow  as  possible  to  fall  upon  hers.  But  as  he  looked 
around  the  apartment  and  saw  on  every  side  the  prepara 
tions  for  one  who  had  been  his,  yet  could  be  no  longer,  his 
fortitude  gave  way,  and  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

So  deep  was  his  painful  revery  that  he  did  not  hear  the 
entrance  of  Dr.  Barnes  and  Mr.  Kemble.  The  latter  laid 
a  hand  upon  his  shoulder  and  said  kindly,  "flobart,  my 
friend,  it  is  just  as  I  told  you  it  would  be.  Helen  needs 
you  and  wishes  to  see  you." 

Martine  started  up,  exclaiming,  "He  must  have  remem 
bered  her." 

Mr.  Kemble  shook  his  head.  "No,  flobart,"  said  the 
doctor,  "she  was  as  much  of  a  stranger  to  him  as  you  were. 
There  were,  of  course,  grounds  for  your  expectation  and 
hers  also,  but  we  prosaic  physiologists  have  some  reason 
for  our  doubtings  as  well  as  you  for  your  beliefs,  it's  going 
\o  be  a  question  of  time  with  Nichol.  flow  are  you  your 
self  ?  Ah,  I  see,"  he  added,  with  his  finger  on  his  patient's 
pulse.  "With  you  it's  going  to  be  a  question  of  tonics." 

"Yes,  I  admit  that,"  Martine  replied,  "but  perhaps  of 
tonics  other  than  those  you  have  in  mind.  You  said,  sir 
[to  Mr.  Kemble],  that  Helen  wished  to  see  me?" 

"Yes,  when  you  feel  well  enough." 

"1  trust  you  will  make  yourselves  at  home,"  said  Mar- 
tine,  hastily  preparing  to  go  out. 

"But  don't  you  wish  to  hear  more  about  Nichol?" 
asked  the  doctor,  laughing. 

"  N  ot  at  present.     Good  -  by . " 

Yet  he  was  perplexed  how  to  meet  the  girl  who  should 
now  have  been  his  wife;  and  he  trembled  with  strange  em 
barrassment  as  he  entered  the  familiar  room  in  which  he 
had  parted  from  her  almost  on  the  eve  of  their  wedding. 


160  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

She  was  neither  perplexed  nor  embarrassed,  for  she  had 
the  calmness  of  a  fixed  purpose.  She  went  swiftly  to  him, 
took  his  hand,  led  him  to  a  chair,  then  sat  down  beside 
him.  He  looked  at  her  wonderingly  and  listened  sadly  as 
she  asked,  "Hobart,  will  you  be  patient  with  me  again?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied  after  a  moment,  yet  he  sighed  deeply 
in  foreboding. 

Tears  came  into  her  eyes,  yet  her  voice  did  not  falter  as 
she  continued:  "I  said  last  night  that  you  would  under 
stand  me  better  than  any  one  else;  so  I  believe  you  will 
now.  You  will  sustain  and  strengthen  me  in  what  I  believe 
to  be  duty." 

"Yes,  Helen,  up  to  the  point  of  such  endurance  as  I 
have.  One  can't  go  beyond  that." 

"No,  Hobart,  but  you  will  not  fail  me,  nor  let  me  fail. 
I  cannot  marry  Captain  Nichol  as  he  now  is' '  — there  was 
an  irrepressible  flash  of  joy  in  his  dark  eyes — "nor  can  I," 
she  added  slowly  and  sadly,  "marry  you. "  He  was  about 
to  speak,  but  she  checked  him  and  resumed.  "Listen  pa 
tiently  to  me  first.  I  have  thought  and  thought  long  hours, 
and  I  think  I  am  right.  You,  better  than  I,  know  Captain 
Nichol's  condition — its  sad  contrast  to  his  former  noble 
self.  The  man  we  once  knew  is  veiled,  hidden,  lost — how 
can  we  express  it  ?  But  he  exists,  and  at  any  time  may  find 
and  reveal  himself.  No  one,  not  even  I,  can  revolt  at  what 
he  is  now  as  he  will  revolt  at  it  all  when  his  true  conscious 
ness  returns.  He  has  met  with  an  immeasurable  misfor 
tune.  He  is  infinitely  worse  off  than  if  helpless — worse  off 
than  if  he  were  dead,  if  this  condition  is  to  last;  but  it  may 
not  last.  What  would  he  think  of  me  if  I  should  desert 
him  now  and  leave  him  nothing  to  remember  but  a  condi 
tion  of  which  he  could  only  think  with  loathing  ?  I  will 
hide  nothing  from  you,  Hobart,  my  brave,  true  friend — you 
who  have  taught  me  what  patience  means.  If  you  had 
brought  him  back  utterly  helpless,  yet  his  old  self  in  mind, 
I  could  have  loved  him  and  married  him,  and  you  would 
have  sustained  me  in  that  course.  Now  I  don't  know.  My 


FOUND    YET  LOST  161 

future,  in  this  respect,  is  hidden  like  his.  The  shock  I  re 
ceived  last  night,  the  revulsion  of  feeling  which  followed, 
leaves  only  one  thing  clear.  I  must  try  to  do  what  is  right 
by  him;  it  will  not  be  easy.  I  hope  you  will  understand. 
While  I  have  the  deepest  pity  that  a  woman  can  feel,  I 
shrink  from  him  nowy  for  the  contrast  between  his  former 
self  and  his  present  is  so  terrible.  Oh,  it  is  such  a  horrible 
mystery!  All  Dr.  Barnes's  explanations  do  not  make  it 
one  bit  less  mysterious  and  dreadful.  Albert  took  the 
risk  of  this;  he  has  suffered  this  for  his  country.  I  must 
suffer  for  him;  I  must  not  desert  him  in  his  sad  extremity. 
I  must  not  permit  him  to  awake  some  day  and  learn  from 
others  what  he  now  is,  and  that  1,  the  woman  he  loved,  of 
all  others,  left  him  to  his  degradation.  The  consequences 
might  be  more  fatal  than  the  injury  which  so  changed  him. 
Such  action  on  my  part  might  destroy  him  morally.  Now 
his  old  self  is  buried  as  truly  as  if  he  had  died.  I  could 
never  look  him  in  the  face  again  if  I  left  him  to  take  his 
chances  in  life  with  no  help  from  me,  still  less  if  I  did  that 
which  he  could  scarcely  forgive.  He  could  not  understand 
all  that  has  happened  since  we  thought  him  dead.  He  would 
only  remember  that  I  deserted  him  in  his  present  pitiable 
plight.  Do  you  understand  me,  Hobart  ?' ' 

4 'I  must,  Helen." 

"I  know  how  hard  it  is  for  you.  Can  you  think  I  forget 
this  for  a  moment  ?  Yet  I  send  for  you  to  help,  to  sustain 
me  in  a  purpose  which  changes  our  future  so  greatly.  Do 
you  not  remember  what  you  said  once  about  accepting  the 
conditions  of  life  as  they  are  ?  We  must  do  this  again,  and 
make  the  best  of  them. ' ' 

"But  if — suppose  his  memory  does  not  come  back.  Is 
there  to  be  no  hope  ?" 

"Hobart,  you  must  put  that  thought  from  you  as  far  as 
you  can.  Do  you  not  see  whither  it  might  lead  ?  You  would 
not  wish  Captain  Nichol  to  remain  as  he  is?" 

"Oh,"  he  cried  desperately,  "I'm  put  in  a  position  that 
would  tax  any  saint  in  the  calendar." 


162  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

"Yes,  you  are.  The  future  is  not  in  our  hands.  I  can 
only  appeal  to  you  to  help  me  do  what  I  think  is  right 
now. ' ' 

He  thought  a  few  moments,  took  his  resolve,  then  gave 
her  his  hand  silently.  She  understood  him  without  a  word. 

The  news  of  the  officer's  return  and  of  his  strange  con 
dition  was  soon  generally  known  in  the  village;  but  his 
parents,  aided  by  the  physician,  quickly  repressed  those 
inclined  to  call  from  mere  curiosity.  At  first  Jim  Wetherby 
scouted  the  idea  that  his  old  captain  would  not  know  him, 
but  later  had  to  admit  the  fact  with  a  wonder  which  no 
explanations  satisfied.  Nichol  immediately  took  a  fancy  to 
the  one-armed  veteran,  who  was  glad  to  talk  by  the  hour 
about  soldiers  and  hospitals. 

Before  any  matured  plan  for  treatment  could  be  adopted 
Nichol  became  ill,  and  soon  passed  into  the  delirium  of 
fever.  "The  trouble  is  now  clear  enough,"  Dr.  Barnes  ex 
plained.  "The  captain  has  lived  in  hospitals  and  breathed 
a  tainted  atmosphere  so  long  that  his  system  is  poisoned. 
This  radical  change  of  air  has  developed  the  disease." 

Indeed,  the  typhoid  symptoms  progressed  so  rapidly  as 
to  show  that  the  robust  look  of  health  had  been  in  appear 
ance  only.  The  injured,  weakened  brain  was  the  organ 
which  suffered  most,  and  in  spite  of  the  physician's  best 
efforts  his  patient  speedily  entered  into  a  condition  of 
stupor,  relieved  only  by  low,  unintelligible  mutterings. 
Jim  Wetherby  became  a  tireless  watcher,  and  greatly  re 
lieved  the  grief -stricken  parents.  Helen  earnestly  entreated 
that  she  might  act  the  part  of  nurse  also,  but  the  doctor 
firmly  forbade  her  useless  exposure  to  contagion.  She 
drove  daily  to  the  house,  yet  Mrs.  Nichol' s  sad  face  and 
words  could  scarcely  dissipate  the  girl's  impression  that 
the  whole  strange  episode  was  a  dream. 

At  last  it  was  feared  that  the  end  was  near.  One  night 
Dr.  Barnes,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Nichol,  and  Jim  Wetherby  were 
watching  in  the  hope  of  a  gleam  of  intelligence.  He  was 
very  low,  scarcely  more  thaq  breathing,  and  they  dreaded 


FOUND   YET  LOST  163 

lest  there  might  be  no  sign  before  the  glimmer  of  life  faded 
out  utterly. 

Suddenly  the  captain  seemed  to  awake,  his  glassy  eyes 
kindled,  and  a  noble  yet  stern  expression  dignified  his 
visage.  In  a  thick  voice  he  said,  "For—"  Then,  as  if  all 
the  remaining  forces  of  life  asserted  themselves,  he  rose  in 
his  bed  and  exclaimed  loudly,  "Forward!  Company  A. 
Guide  right.  Ah!"  He  fell  back,  now  dead  in  very  truth. 

"Oh!"  cried  Jim  Wetherby,  excitedly,  "them  was  the 
last  words  I  heard  from  him  just  before  the  shell  burst,  and 
he  looks  now  just  as  he  did  then." 

"Yes,"  said  Dr.  Barnes,  sadly  and  gravely,  "memory 
came  back  to  him  at  the  point  where  he  lost  it.  He  has  died 
as  we  thought  at  first — a  brave  soldier  leading  a  charge. ' ' 

The  stern,  grand  impress  of  battle  remained  upon  the 
officer's  countenance.  Friends  and  neighbors  looked  upon 
his  ennobled  visage  with  awe,  and  preserved  in  honored 
remembrance  the  real  man  that  temporarily  had  been  ob 
scured.  Helen's  eyes,  when  taking  her  farewell  look,  were 
not  so  blinded  with  tears  but  that  she  recognized  his  re 
stored  manhood.  Death's  touch  had  been  more  potent  than 
love's  appeal. 

In  the  Wilderness,  upon  a  day  fatal  to  him  and  so  many 
thousands,  Captain  Nichol  had  prophesied  of  the  nappy 
days  of  peace.  They  came,  and  he  was  not  forgotten. 

One  evening  Dr.  Barnes  was  sitting  with  Martine  and 
Helen  at  their  fireside.  They  had  been  talking  about 
Nichol,  and  Helen  remarked  thoughtfully,  "It  was  so 
very  strange  that  he  should  have  regained  his  memory 
in  the  way  and  at  the  time  he  did. ' ' 

"No,"  replied  the  physician,  "that  part  of  his  experi 
ence  does  not  strike  me  as  so  very  strange.  In  typhoid 
cases  a  lucid  interval  is  apt  to  precede  death.  His  brain, 
like  his  body,  was  depleted,  shrunken  slightly  by  disease. 
This  impoverishment  probably  removed  the  cerebral  ob 
struction,  and  the  organ  of  memory  renewed  its  action  at 
the  point  where  it  had  been  arrested.  My  theory  explains 


164  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

his  last  ejaculation,  'Ah!'  It  was  his  involuntary  exclama 
tion  as  he  again  heard  the  shell  burst.  The  reproduction 
in  his  mind  of  this  explosion  killed  him  instantly  after  all. 
He  was  too  enfeebled  to  bear  the  shock.  If  he  had  passed 
from  delirium  into  quiet  sleep— ah,  well!  he  is  dead,  and 
that  is  all  we  can  know  with  certainty. ' ' 

"Well,"  said  Martine,  with  a  deep  breath,  "I  am  glad  he 
had  every  chance  that  it  was  possible  for  us  to  give  him. ' ' 

"Yes,  Hobart, "  added  his  wife,  gently,  "you  did  your 
whole  duty,  and  I  do  not  forget  what  it  cost  you." 


QUEEN    OF    SPADES 


M 


OTHER,"  remarked  Farmer  Banning,  discontent* 
edly,  "Susie  is  making  a  long  visit." 

"She  is  coming  home  next  week,"  said  his 
cheery  wife.  She  had  drawn  her  low  chair  close  to  the 
air-tight  stove,  for  a  late  March  snowstorm  was  raging 
without. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  I  miss  her  more  and  more." 

"Well,  I'm  not  jealous." 

"Oh,  come,  wife,  you  needn't  be.  The  idea!  But  I'd 
be  jealous  if  our  little  girl  was  sorter  weaned  away  from  us 
by  this  visit  in  town." 

"Now,  see  here,  father,  you  beat  all  the  men  I  ever 
heard  of  in  scolding  about  farmers  borrowing,  and  here 
you  are  borrowing  trouble." 

"Well,  I  hope  I  won't  have  to  pay  soon.  But  I've  been 
thinking  that  the  old  farmhouse  may  look  small  and  appear 
lonely  after  her  gay  winter.  When  she  is  away,  it's  too  big 
for  me,  and  a  suspicion  lonely  for  us  both.  I've  seen  that 
you've  missed  her  more  than  I  have." 

"I  guess  you're  right.  Well,  she's  coming  home,  as  I 
said,  and  we  must  make  home  seem  home  to  her.  The 
child's  growing  up.  Why,  she'll  be  eighteen  week  after 
next.  You  must  give  her  something  nice  on  her  birthday." 

"I  will,"  said  the  farmer,  his  rugged,  weather-beaten  face 
softening  with  memories.  "Is  our  little  girl  as  old  as  that? 
Why,  only  the  other  day  I  was  carrying  her  on  my  shoulder 
to  the  barn  and  tossing  her  into  the  haymow.  Sure  enough, 
the  10th  of  April'  will  be  her  birthday.  Well,  she  shall 
choose  her  own  present." 

(165) 


166  TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND    OTHER  STORIES 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  6th  of  April  he  went  down  the 
long  bill  to  the  station,  and  was  almost  like  a  lover  in  his 
eagerness  to  see  his  child.  He  had  come  long  before  the 
train's  schedule  time,  but  was  rewarded  at  last.  When 
Susie  appeared,  she  gave  him  a  kiss  before  every  one,  and 
a  glad  greeting  which  might  have  satisfied  the  most  exact 
ing  of  lovers.  He  watched  her  furtively  as  they  rode  at  a 
smart  trot  up  the  hill.  Farmer  Banning  kept  no  old  nags 
for  his  driving,  but  strong,  well-fed,  spirited  horses  that 
sometimes  drew  a  light  vehicle  almost  by  the  reins.  "Yes," 
he  thought,  "she  has  grown  a  little  citified.  She's  paler, 
and  has  a  certain  air  or  style  that  don't  seem  just  natural 
to  the  hill.  Well,  thank  the  Lord!  she  doesn't  seem  sorry 
to  go  up  the  hill  once  more." 

"There's  the  old  place,  Susie,  waiting  for  you,"  he  said. 
"It  doesn't  look  so  very  bleak,  does  it,  after  all  the  fine  city 
houses  you've  seen  ?" 

' '  Yes,  father,  it  does.    It  never  appeared  so  bleak  before. ' ' 

He  looked  at  his  home,  and  in  the  late  gray  afternoon, 
saw  it  in  a  measure  with  her  eyes — the  long  brown,  bare 
slopes,  a  few  gaunt  old  trees  about  the  house,  and  the  top 
boughs  of  the  apple-orchard  behind  a  sheltering  hill  in  the 
rear  of  the  dwelling. 

44 Father,"  resumed  the  girl,  44we  ought  to  call  our  place 
the  Bleak  House.  I  never  so  realized  before  how  bare  and 
desolate  it  looks,  standing  there  right  in  the  teeth  of  the 
north  wind." 

His  countenance  fell,  but  he  had  no  time  for  comment 
A  moment  later  Susie  was  in  her  mother's  arms.  The  farmer 
lifted  the  trunk  to  the  horse-block  and  drove  to  the  barn. 
4 'I  guess  it  will  be  the  old  story,"  he  muttered.  "Home 
has  become  'Bleak  House.'  I  suppose  it  did  look  bleak  to 
her  eyes,  especially  at  this  season.  Well,  well,  some  day 
Susie  will  go  to  the  city  to  stay,  and  then  it  will  be  Bleak 
House  sure  enough." 

440h,  father,"  cried  his  daughter  when,  after  doing  his 
evening  work,  he  entered  with  the  shadow  of  his  thoughts 


QUEEN   OF  SPADES  167 

still  upon  his  face — "oh,  father,  mother  says  I  can  choose 
my  birthday  present!" 

"Yes,  Sue;  I've  passed  my  word." 

"And  so  I  have  your  bond.  My  present  Will  make  you 
open  your  eyes." 

"And  pocket-book  too,  I  suppose.  I'll  trust  you,  how« 
ever,  not  to  break  me.  What  is  it  to  be?" 

"I'll  tell  you  the  day  before,  and  not  till  then." 

After  supper  they  drew  around  the  stove.  Mrs.  Ban 
ning  got  out  her  knitting,  as  usual,  and  prepared  for  city 
gossip.  The  farmer  rubbed  his  hands  over  the  general  as 
pect  of  comfort,  and  especially  over  the  regained  presence 
of  his  child's  bright  face.  "Well,  Sue,"  he  remarked, 
"you'll  own  that  this  room  in  the  house  doesn't  look 
very  bleak?" 

"No,  father,  I'll  own  nothing  of  the  kind.  Your  face 
and  mother's  are  not  bleak,  but  the  room  is." 

"Well,"  said  the  farmer,  rather  disconsolately,  "I  fear 
the  old  place  has  been  spoiled  for  you.  I  was  saying  to 
mother  before  you  came  home—' ' 

"There  now,  father,  no  matter  about  what  you  were  say 
ing.  Let  Susie  tell  us  why  the  room  is  bleak." 

The  girl  laughed  softly,  got  up,  and  taking  a  billet  of 
wood  from  the  box,  put  it  into  the  air-tight.  "The  stove 
has  swallowed  it  just  as  old  Trip  did  his  supper.  Shame! 
you  greedy  dog,"  she  added,  caressing  a  great  Newfound 
land  that  would  not  leave  her  a  moment.  "Why  can't  you 
learn  to  eat  your  meals  like  a  gentleman?"  Then  to  her 
father,  "Suppose  we  could  sit  here  and  see  the  flames  curl 
ing  all  over  and  around  that  stick.  Even  a  camp  in  the 
woods  is  jolly  when  lighted  up  by  a  flickering  blaze." 

"Oh — h!"  said  the  farmer;  "you  think  an  open  fire 
would  take  away  the  bleakness?" 

"Certainly.  The  room  would  be  changed  instantly,  and 
mother's  face  would  look  young  and  rosy  again.  The  blue- 
black  of  this  sheet-iron  stove  makes  the  room  look  blue' 
black." 


168  TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER   STORIES 

"Open  fires  don't  give  near  as  much  heat,"  said  her 
father,  meditatively.  "They  take  an  awful  lot  of  wood; 
and  wood  is  getting  scarce  in  these  parts." 

"I  should  say  sol  Why  don't  you  farmers  get  together, 
appoint  a  committee  to  cut  down  every  tree  remaining,  then 
make  it  a  State- prison  offence  ever  to  set  out  another? 
Why,  father,  you  cut  nearly  all  the  trees  from  your  lot  a 
few  years  ago  and  sold  the  wood.  Now  that  the  trees  are 
growing  again,  you  are  talking  of  clearing  up  the  land  for 
pasture.  Just  think  of  the  comfort  we  could  get  out  of  that 
wood- lot!  What  crop  would  pay  better?  All  the  uphol 
sterers  in  the  world  cannot  furnish  a  room  as  an  open  hard- 
wood  fire  does;  and  all  the  produce  of  the  farm  could  not 
buy  anything  else  half  so  nice." 

"Say,  mother,"  said  her  father,  after  a  moment,  "J  guess 
I'll  get  down  that  old  Franklin  from  the  garret  to-morrow 
and  see  if  it  can't  furnish  this  room." 

The  next  morning  he  called  rather  testily  to  the  hired 
man,  who  was  starting  up  the  lane  with  an  axe,  "Hiram, 
I've  got  other  work  for  you.  Don't  cut  a  stick  in  that 
wood-lot  unless  I  tell  you." 

The  evening  of  the  9th  of  April  was  cool  but  clear,  and 
the  farmer  said,  genially,  "Well,  Sue,  prospects  good  for 
fine  weather  on  your  birthday.  Glad  of  it;  for  I  suppose 
you  will  want  me  to  go  to  town  with  you  for  your  present, 
whatever  it  is  to  be." 

"You'll  own  up  a  girl  can  keep  a  secret  now,  won't 
you?" 

"He'll  have  to  own  more' n  that,"  added  his  wife;  "he 
must  own  that  an  ole  woman  hasn't  lost  any  sleep  from 
curiosity." 

"How  much  will  be  left  me  to  own  to-morrow  night?" 
said  the  farmer,  dubiously.  "I  suppose  Sue  wants  a  watch 
studded  with  diamonds,  or  a  new  house,  or  something  else 
that  she  darsn't  speak  of  till  the  last  minute,  even  to  her 
mother. ' ' 

"Nothing  of  the  kind.     I  want  only  all  your  time  to- 


QUEEN   OF   SPADES  169 

morrow,  and  all  Hiram's  time,  after  you  have  fed  the 
stock." 

"All  our  time!" 

"Yes,  the  entire  day,  in  which  you  both  are  to  do  just 
what  I  wish.  You  are  not  going  gallivanting  to  the  city, 
but  will  have  to  work  hard. ' ' 

"Well,  I'm  beat!  I  don't  know  what  you  want  any 
more  than  I  did  at  first. ' ' 

"Yes,  you  do — your  time  and  Hiram's." 

"Give  it  up.  It's  hardly  the  season  for  a  picnic.  "We 
might  go  fishing — " 

"We  must  go  to  bed,  so  as  to  be  up  early,  all 
hands." 

"Oh,  hold  on,  Sue;  I  do  like  this  wood-fire.  If  it 
wouldn't  make  you  vain,  I'd  tell  you  how — " 

"Pretty,  father.     Say  it  out." 

"Oh,  you  know  it,  do  you?  Well,  how  pretty  you  look 
in  the  firelight.  Even  mother,  there,  looks  ten  years  younger. 
Keep  your  low  seat,  child,  and  let  me  look  at  you.  So 
you're  eighteen?  My!  my!  how  the  years  roll  around! 
It  will  be  Bleak  House  for  mother  and  me,  in  spite  of  the 
wood- fire,  when  you  leave  us." 

"It  won't  be  Bleak  House  much  longer,"  she  replied 
with  a  significant  little  nod. 

The  next  morning  at  an  early  hour  the  farmer  said,  "All 
ready,  Sue.  Our  time  is  yours  till  night;  so  queen  it  over 
us. ' '  And  black  Hiram  grinned  acquiescence,  thinking  he 
was  to  have  an  easy  time. 

"Queen  it,  did  you  say?"  cried  Sue,  in  great  spirits. 
"Well,  then,  I  shall  be  queen  of  spades.  Get  'em,  and 
come  with  me.  Bring  a  pickaxe,  too."  She  led  the  way 
to  a  point  not  far  from  the  dwelling,  and  resumed:  "A  hole 
here,  father,  a  hole  there,  Hiram,  big  enough  for  a  small 
hemlock,  and  holes  all  along  the  northeast  side  of  the 
house.  Then  lots  more  holes,  all  over  the  lawn,  for  oaks, 
maples,  dogwood,  and  all  sorts  to  pretty  trees,  especially 
evergreens. ' ' 

8— ROE— XI 


170  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

"Oh,  ho!"  cried  the  farmer;  "now  I  see  the  hole  where 
the  woodchuck  went  in." 

"But  you  don't  see  the  hole  where  he's  coming  out. 
When  that  is  dug,  even  the  road  will  be  lined  with  trees. 
Foolish  old  father!  you  thought  I'd  be  carried  away  with 
city  gewgaws,  fine  furniture,  dresses,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  You  thought  I'd  be  pining  for  what  you  couldn't 
afford,  what  wouldn't  do  you  a  particle  of  good,  nor  me 
either,  in  the  long  run.  I'm  going  to  make  you  set  out 
trees  enough  to  double  the  value  of  your  place  and  take 
all  the  bleakness  and  bareness  from  this  hillside  To-day 
is  only  the  beginning.  I  did  get  some  new  notions  in  the 
city  which  made  me  discontented  with  my  home,  but  they 
were  not  the  notions  you  were  worrying  about.  In  the 
suburbs  I  saw  that  the  most  costly  houses  were  made 
doubly  attractive  by  trees  and  shrubbery,  and  I  knew  that 
trees  would  grow  for  us  as  well  as  for  millionaires —  My 
conscience!  it  there  isn't — "  and  the  girl  frowned  and  bit 
her  lips. 

"Is  that  one  of  the  city  beaux  you  were  telling  us 
about?"  asked  her  father,  sotto  voce. 

"Yes;  but  I  don't  want  any  beaux  around  to-day.  I 
didn't  think  he'd  be  so  persistent."  Then,  conscious  that 
she  was  not  dressed  for  company,  but  for  work  upon  which 
she  had  set  her  heart,  she  advanced  and  gave  Mr.  Minturn 
a  rather  cool  greeting. 

But  the  persistent  beau  was  equal  to  the  occasion.  He 
had  endured  Sue's  absence  as  long  as  he  could,  then  had 
resolved  on  a  long  day's  siege,  with  a  grand  storming-onset 
late  in  the  afternoon. 

"Please,  Miss  Banning,"  he  began,  "don't  look  askance 
at  me  for  coming  at  this  unearthly  hour.  I  claim  the  sacred 
rites  of  hospitality.  I'm  an  invalid.  The  doctor  said  I 
needed  country  air,  or  would  have  prescribed  it  if  given  a 
chance.  You  said  I  might  come  to  see  you  some  day,  and 
by  playing  Paul  Pry  I  found  out,  you  remember,  that  this 
was  your  birthday,  and — ' ' 


QUEEN    OF  SPADES  171 

"And  this  is  my  father,  Mr.  Minturn." 

Mr.  Minturn  shook  the  farmer's  hand  with  a  cordiality 
calculated  to  awaken  suspicions  of  his  designs  in  a  pump, 
had  its  handle  been  thus  grasped.  "Mr.  Banning  will  for 
give  me  for  appearing  with  the  lark,"  he  continued  volubly, 
determining  to  break  the  ice.  "One  can't  get  the  full 
benefit  of  a  day  in  the  country  if  he  starts  in  the  after 
noon." 

The  farmer  was  polite,  but  nothing  more.  If  there  was 
one  thing  beyond  all  others  with  which  he  could  dispense, 
it  was  a  beau  for  Sue. 

Sue  gave  her  father  a  significant,  disappointed  glance, 
which  meant,  "I  won't  get  my  present  to  day";  but  he 
turned  and  said  to  Hiram,  "Dig  the  hole  right  there,  two 
feet  across,  eighteen  inches  deep.  Then  he  started  for  the 
house.  While  not  ready  for  suitors,  his  impulse  to  bestow 
hospitality  was  prompt. 

The  alert  Mr.  Minturn  had  observed  the  girl's  glance, 
and  knew  that  the  farmer  had  gone  to  prepare  his  wife  for 
a  guest.  He  determined  not  to  remain  unless  assured  of  a 
welcome.  "Come,  Miss  Banning,"  he  said,  "we  are  at  least 
friends,  and  should  be  frank.  How  much  misunderstand 
ing  and  trouble  would  often  be  saved  if  people  would  just 
speak  their  thought !  This  is  your  birthday — your  day.  It 
should  not  be  marred  by  any  one.  It  would  distress  me 
keenly  if  I  were  the  one  to  spoil  it.  Why  not  believe  me 
literally  and  have  your  way  absolutely  about  this  day  ?  I 
could  come  another  time.  Now  show  that  a  country  girl, 
at  least,  can  speak  her  mind." 

With  an  embarrassed  little  laugh  she  answered,  "I'm 
half  inclined  to  take  you  at  your  word ;  but  it  would  look 
so  inhospitable. ' ' 

1 ' Bah  for  looks !  The  truth,  please.  By  the  way,  though, 
you  never  looked  better  than  in  that  trim  blue  walking- 
suit." 

"Old  outgrown  working- suit,  you  mean.  How  sincere 
you  are  I" 


172  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

"Indeed  I  am.  Well,  I'm  de  trop;  that  much  is  plain. 
You  will  let  me  come  another  day,  won't  you  ?" 

"Yes,  and  I'll  be  frank  too  and  tell  you  about  this  day. 
Father's  a  busy  man,  and  his  spring  work  is  beginning,  but 
as  my  birthday- present  he  has  given  me  all  his  time  and  all 
Hiram's  yonder.  Well,  I  learned  in  the  city  how  trees  im 
proved  a  home;  and  I  had  planned  to  spend  this  long  day 
in  setting  out  trees — planned  it  ever  since  my  return.  So 
you  see — " 

"Of  course  I  see  and  approve,"  cried  Minturn.  "I  know 
now  why  I  had  such  a  wild  impulse  to  come  out  here  to-day. 
Why,  certainly.  Just  fancy  me  a  city  tramp  looking  for 
work,  and  not  praying  I  won't  find  it,  either.  I'll  work 
for  my  board.  I  know  how  to  set  out  trees.  I  can  prove 
it,  for  I  planted  those  thrifty  fellows  growing  about  our 
house  in  town.  Think  how  much  more  you'll  accomplish 
with  another  man  to  help — one  that  you  can  order  around 
to  your  heart's  content." 

"The  idea  of  my  putting  you  to  work!" 

"A  capital  idea!  and  if  a  man  doesn't  work  when  a 
woman  puts  him  at  it  he  isn't  worth  the  powder — I  won't 
waste  time  even  in  original  remarks.  I'll  promise  you  there 
will  be  double  the  number  of  trees  out  by  night.  Let  me 
take  your  father's  spade  and  show  you  how  I  can  dig.  Is 
this  the  place?  If  I  don't  catch  up  with  Hiram,  you  may 
send  the  tramp  back  to  the  city."  And  before  she  could 
remonstrate,  his  coat  was  off  and  he  at  work. 

Laughing,  yet  half  in  doubt,  she  watched  him.  The  way 
he  made  the  earth  fly  was  surprising.  "Oh,  come, "  she  said 
after  a  few  moments,  "you  have  shown  your  goodwill.  A 
steam-engine  could  not  keep  it  up  at  that  rate." 

"Perhaps  not;  but  I  can.  Before  you  engage  me,  I  wish 
you  to  know  that  I  am  equal  to  old  Adam,  and  can  dig." 

"Engage  you!"  she  thought  with  a  little  flutter  of  dis 
may.  "I  could  manage  him  with  the  help  of  town  conven 
tionalities;  but  how  will  it  be  here?  I  suppose  I  can  keep 
father  and  Hiram  within  earshot,  and  if  he  is  so  bent  on — 


QUEEN   OF  SPADES  178 

well,  call  it  a  lark,  since  he  has  referred  to  that  previous 
bird,  perhaps  I  might  as  well  have  a  lark  too,  seeing  it's 
my  birthday."  Then  she  spoke.  "Mr.  Minturn!" 

"I'm  busy." 

"  But  really— " 

"And  truly  tell  me,  am  I  catching  up  with  Hiram?" 

"You'll  get  down  so  deep  that  you'll  drop  through  if 
you're  not  careful." 

"There's  nothing  like  having  a  man  who  is  steady  work 
ing  for  you.  Now,  most  fellows  would  stop  and  giggle  at 
such  little  amusing  remarks." 

"You  are  soiling  your  trousers." 

"Yes,  you're  right.  They  are  mine.  There;  isn't  that 
a  regulation  hole?  'Two  feet  across  and  eighteen  deep.'  ' 

"Yah!  yah!"  cackled  Hiram;  "eighteen  foot  deep!  Dat 
ud  be  a  well." 

"Of  course  it  would,  and  truth  would  lie  at  its  bottom. 
Can  I  stay,  Miss  Banning  ?' ' 

"Did  you  ever  see  the  like?"  cried  the  farmer,  who  had 
appeared,  unnoticed. 

"Look  here,  father,"  said  the  now  merry  girl,  "perhaps 
I  was  mistaken.  This — " 

"Tramp — "  interjected  M  in  turn. 

"Says  he's  looking  for  work  and  knows  how  to  set  out 
trees." 

"And  will  work  all  day  for  a  dinner,"  the  tramp 
promptly  added. 

"If  he  can  dig  holes  at  that  rate,  Sue,"  said  her  father, 
catching  their  spirit,  "he's  worth  a  dinner.  But  you're  boss 
to-day;  I'm  only  one  of  the  hands." 

"I'm  only  another,"  said  Minturn,  touching  his  hat. 

"Boss,  am  I?  I'll  soon  find  out.  Mr.  Minturn,  come 
with  me  and  don  a  pair  of  overalls.  You  shan't  put  me  to 
shame,  wearing  that  spick-and-span  suit,  neither  shall  you 
spoil  it.  Oh,  you're  in  for  it  now  I  You  might  have  es 
caped,  and  come  another  day,  when  I  could  have  received 
you  in  state  and  driven  you  out  behind  father's  frisky  bays. 


174  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

When  you  return  to  town  with  blistered  hands  and  aching 
bones,  you  will  at  least  know  better  another  time." 

"I  don't  know  any  better  this  time,  and  just  yearn  for 
those  overalls. ' ' 

"To  the  house,  then,  and  see  mother  before  you  become 
a  wreck." 

Farmer  Banning  looked  after  him  and  shook  his  head. 
Hiram  spoke  his  employer's  thought,  "Dar  ar  gem'lin  act 
like  he  gwine  ter  set  hisself  out  on  dis  farm." 

Sue  had  often  said,  "I  can  never  be  remarkable  for  any 
thing;  but  I  won't  be  commonplace."  So  she  did  not  leave 
her  guest  in  the  parlor  while  she  rushed  off  for  a  whispered 
conference  with  her  mother.  The  well-bred  simplicity  of 
her  manner,  which  often  stopped  just  short  of  brusqueness, 
was  never  more  apparent  than  now.  "Mother!"  she  called 
from  the  parlor  door. 

The  old  lady  gave  a  few  final  directions  to  her  maid-of- 
all-work,  and  then  appeared. 

"Mother,  this  is  Mr.  Minturn,  one  of  my  city  friends,  of 
whom  I  have  spoken  to  you.  He  is  bent  on  helping  me  set 
out  trees. ' ' 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Banning,  so  bent  that  your  daughter  found 
that  she  would  have  to  employ  her  dog  to  get  me  off  the 
place." 

Now,  it  had  so  happened  that  in  discussing  with  her 
mother  the  young  men  whom  she  had  met,  Sue  had  said 
little  about  Mr.  Minturn ;  but  that  little  was  significant  to 
the  experienced  matron.  Words  had  slipped  out  now  and 
then  which  suggested  that  the  girl  did  more  thinking  than 
talking  concerning  him;  and  she  always  referred  to  him  in 
some  light  which  she  chose  to  regard  as  ridiculous,  but 
which  had  not  seemed  in  the  least  absurd  to  the  attentive 
listener.  When  her  husband,  therefore,  said  that  Mr.  Min 
turn  had  appeared  on  the  scene,  she  felt  that  an  era  of  por 
tentous  events  had  begun.  The  trees  to  be  set  out  would 
change  the  old  place  greatly,  but  a  primeval  forest  shading 
the  door  would  be  as  nothing  compared  with  the  vicissitude 


QUEEN    OF  SPADES  175 

wktch  a  favored  "beau"  might  produce.  But  mothers  are 
more  unselfish  than  fathers,  and  are  their  daughters1  nat 
ural  allies  unless  the  suitor  is  objectionable.  Mrs.  Banning 
was  inclined  to  be  hospitable  on  general  principles,  mean 
time  eager  on  her  own  account  to  see  something  of  this 
man,  about  whom  she  had  presentiments.  So  she  said 
affably,  "My  daughter  can  keep  her  eye  on  the  work  which 
she  is  so  interested  in,  and  yet  give  you  most  of  her  time. — 
Susan,  I  will  entertain  Mr.  Minturn  while  you  change  your 
dress. ' ' 

She  glanced  at  her  guest  dubiously,  receiving  for  the 
moment  the  impression  that  the  course  indicated  by  her 
mother  was  the  correct  one.  The  resolute  admirer  knew 
well  what  a  fiasco  the  day  would  be  should  the  convention 
alities  prevail,  and  so  said  promptly:  "Mrs.  Banning,  I  ap 
preciate  your  kind  intentions,  and  1  hope  some  day  you 
may  have  the  chance  to  carry  them  out.  To-day,  as  your 
husband  understands,  I  am  a  tramp  from  the  city  looking 
for  work.  I  have  found  it,  and  have  been  engaged. — Miss 
Banning,  I  shall  hold  you  inflexibly  to  our  agreement — a 
pair  of  overalls  and  dinner." 

Sue  said  a  few  words  of  explanation.  Her  mother 
laughed,  but  urged,  "Do  go  and  change  your  dress." 

"I  protest!"  cried  Mr.  Minturn.  "The  walking-suit  and 
overalls  go  together. ' ' 

"Walking- suit,  indeed!"  repeated  Sue,  disdainfully. 
"But  I  shall  not  change  it.  I  will  not  soften  one  feature 
of  the  scrape  you  have  persisted  in  getting  yourself  into. ' ' 

"Please  don't." 

"Mr.  Minturn,"  said  the  matron,  with  smiling  positive- 
ness,  "Susie  is  boss  only  out  of  doors;  I  am,  in  the  house. 
There  is  a  fresh-made  cup  of  coffee  and  some  eggs  on  toast 
in  the  dining-room.  Having  taken  such  an  early  start,  you 
ought  to  have  a  lunch  before  being  put  to  work." 

' '  Yes, ' '  added  Sue,  "and  the  out-door  boss  says  you  can't 
go  to  work  until  at  least  the  coffee  is  sipped." 

"She's  shrewd,   isn't  she,   Mrs.  Banning?    She  knows 


176  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

she  will  get  twice  as  much  work  out  of  me  on  the  strength 
of  that  coffee.  Please  get  the  overalls.  I  will  not  sip,  but 
swallow  the  coffee,  unless  it's  scalding,  so  that  no  time  may 
be  lost.  Miss  Banning  must  see  all  she  had  set  her  heart 
upon  accomplished  to-day,  and  a  great  deal  more. ' ' 

The  matron  departed  on  her  quest,  and  as  she  pulled  out 
the  overalls,  nodded  her  head  significantly.  "Things  will 
be  serious  sure  enough  if  he  accomplishes  all  he  has  set  his 
heart  on,"  she  muttered.  "Well,  he  doesn't  seem  afraid  to 
give  us  a  chance  to  see  him.  He  certainly  will  look  ridicu 
lous  in  these  overalls,  but  not  much  more  so  than  Sue  in 
that  old  dress.  I  do  wish  she  would  change  it." 

The  girl  had  considered  this  point,  but  with  character 
istic  decision  had  thought:  "No;  he  shall  see  us  all  on  the 
plainest  side  of  our  life.  He  always  seemed  a  good  deal  of 
an  exquisite  in  town,  and  he  lives  in  a  handsome  house. 
If  to-day's  experience  at  the  old  farm  disgusts  him,  so  be 
it.  My  dress  is  clean  and  tidy,  if  it  is  outgrown  and  darned ; 
and  mother  is  always  neat,  no  matter  what  she  wears.  I'm 
going  through  the  day  just  as  I  planned;  and  if  he's  too 
fine  for  us,  now  is  the  time  to  find  it  out.  He  may  have 
come  just  for  a  lark,  and  will  laugh  with  his  folks  to-night 
over  the  guy  of  a  girl  I  appear;  but  I  won't  yield  even  to 
the  putting  of  a  ribbon  in  my  hair." 

Mrs.  Banning  never  permitted  the  serving  of  cold  slops 
for  coffee,  and  Mr.  Minturn  had  to  sip  the  generous  and 
fragrant  beverage  slowly.  Meanwhile,  his  thoughts  were 
busy.  "Bah!  for  the  old  saying,  'Take  the  goods  the  gods 
send,'"  he  mused.  "Go  after  your  goods  and  take  your 
pick.  I  knew  my  head  was  level  in  coming  out.  All  is 
just  as  genuine  as  I  supposed  it  would  be — simple,  honest, 
homely.  The  girl  isn't  homely,  though,  but  she's  just  as 
genuine  as  all  the  rest,  in  that  old  dress  which  fits  her  like 
a  glove.  No  shams  and  disguises  on  this  field-day  of  my 
life.  And  her  mother!  A  glance  at  her  comfortable  ampli 
tude  banished  my  one  fear.  There's  not  a  sharp  angle 
about  her.  I  was  satisfied  about  Miss  Sue,  but  the  term 


QUEEN   OF  SPADES  177 

'mother-in-law'  suggests  vague  terrors  to  any  man  until 
reassured. — Ah,  Miss  Banning,"  he  said,  "this  coffee  would 
warm  the  heart  of  an  anchorite.  No  wonder  you  are  in 
spired  to  fine  things  after  drinking  such  nectar. ' ' 

"Yes,  mother  is  famous  for  her  coffee.  I  know  that's 
fine,  and  you  can  praise  it;  but  I'll  not  permit  any  ironical 
remarks  concerning  myself." 

"I  wouldn't,  if  1  were  you,  especially  when  you  are  mis 
tress  of  the  situation.  Still,  I  can't  help  having  my  opinion 
of  you.  Why  in  the  world  didn't  you  choose  as  your  present 
something  stylish  from  the  city?" 

"Something,  I  suppose  you  mean,  in  harmony  with  my 
very  stylish  surroundings  and  present  appearance." 

"I  didn't  mean  anything  of  the  kind,  and  *cicy  you 
know  it.  Ah !  here  are  the  overalls.  Now  deeds,  not  words. 
I'll  leave  my  coat,  watch,  cuffs,  and  all  impedimenta  with 
you,  Mrs.  Banning.  Am  I  not  a  spectacle  to  men  and 
gods?"  he  added,  drawing  up  the  garment,  which  ceased 
to  be  nether  in  that  it  reached  almost  to  his  shoulders. 

"Indeed  you  are,"  cried  Sue,  holding  her  side  from 
laughing.  Mrs.  Banning  also  vainly  tried  to  repress  her 
hilarity  over  the  absurd  guy  into  which  the  nattily- dressed 
city  man  had  transformed  himself. 

"Come,"  he  cried,  "no  frivolity!  You  shall  at  least  say 
I  kept  my  word  about  the  trees  to-day."  And  they  started 
at  once  for  the  scene  of  action,  Minturn  obtaining  on  the 
way  a  shovel  from  the  tool-room. 

"To  think  she's  eighteen  years  old  and  got  a  beau!" 
muttered  the  farmer,  as  he  and  Hiram  started  two  new 
holes.  They  were  dug  and  others  begun,  yet  the  young 
people  had  not  returned.  "That's  the  way  with  young  men 
nowadays — 'big  cry,  little  wool.'  I  thought  I  was  going  to 
have  Sue  around  with  me  all  day.  Might  as  well  get  used 
to  it,  I  suppose.  Eighteen!  Her  mother's  wasn't  much 
older  when — yes,  hang  it,  there's  always  a  when  with  these 
likely  girls.  I'd  just  like  to  start  in  again  on  that  day 
when  I  tossed  her  into  the  haymow." 


178  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

"What  are  you  talking  to  yourself  about,  father  ?" 
"Oh!  I  thought  I  had  seen  the  last  of  you  to-day." 
"Perhaps  you  will  wish  you  had  before  night." 
"Well,  now,  Sue!  the -idea  of  letting  Mr.  Minturn  rig 
himself  out  like  that!     There's  no  use  of  scaring  the  crows 
so  long  before  corn-planting."     And  the  farmer's  guffaw 
was  quickly  joined  by  Hiram's  broad  "Yah!  yah!" 

She  frowned  a  little  as  she  said,  "He  doesn't  look  any 
worse  than  I  do. " 

"Come,  Mr.  Banning,  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  could  not 
so  take  your  daughter's  eye  to-day  as  a  goodly  number  of 
trees  standing  where  she  wants  them.  I  suggest  that  you 
loosen  the  soil  with  the  pickaxe,  then  I  can  throw  it  out 
rapidly.  Try  it." 

The  farmer  did  so,  not  only  for  Minturn,  but  for  Hiram 
also.  The  lightest  part  of  the  work  thus  fell  to  him. 
"We'll  change  about,"  he  said,  "when  you  get  tired." 

But  Minturn  did  not  get  weary  apparently,  and  under 
this  new  division  of  the  toil  the  number  of  holes  grew  apace. 
"Sakes  alive,  Mr.  Minturn!"  ejaculated  Mr.  Banning, 
"one  would  think  you  had  been  brought  up  on  a  farm." 
"Or  at  ditch-digging,"  added  the  young  man.  "No; 
my  profession  is  to  get  people  into  hot  water  and  then 
make  them  pay  roundly  to  get  out.  I'm  a  lawyer.  Times 
have  changed  in  cities.  It's  there  you'll  find  young  men 
with  muscle,  if  anywhere.  Put  your  hand  here,  sir,  and 
you'll  know  whether  Miss  Banning  made  a  bad  bargain  in 
hiring  me  for  the  day." 

"Why!"  exclaimed  the  astonished  farmer,  -'you  have 
the  muscle  of  a  blacksmith." 

"Yes,  sir;  I  could  learn  that  trade  in  about  a  month." 
"You  don't  grow  muscle  like  that  in  a  law-office?" 
"No,   indeed;   nothing  but  bills  grow  there.     A  good 
fashion,  if  not  abused,  has  come  in  vogue,  and  young  men 
develop  their  bodies  as  well  as  brains.     I  belong  to  an  ath 
letic  club  in  town,  and  could  take  to  pugilism  should  every 
thing  else  fail." 


QUEEN    OF  SPADES  179 

"Is  there  any  prospect  of  your  coming  to  that?"  Sue 
asked  mischievously. 

"If  we  were  out  walking,  and  two  or  three  rough  fellows 
gave  you  impudence — ' '  He  nodded  significantly. 

"What  could  you  do  against  two  or  three  ?  They'd  close 
on  you." 

"A  fellow  taught  to  use  his  hands  doesn't  let  men  close 
on  him. ' ' 

"Yah,  yah!  reckon  not,"  chuckled  Hiram.  One  of  the 
farm  household  had  evidently  been  won. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  remarked  smiling  Sue,  "that  I  saw 
several  young  men  in  town  who  appeared  scarcely  equal  to 
carrying  their  canes." 

"Dudes?" 

"That's  what  they  are  called,  I  believe." 

"They  are  not  men.  They  are  neither  fish,  flesh,  nor 
fowl,  but  the  beginning  of  the  great  downward  curve  of 
evolution.  Men  came  up  from  monkeys,  it's  said,  you 
know,  but  science  is  in  despair  over  the  final  down-comes 
of  dudes.  They  may  evolute  into  grasshoppers." 

The  farmer  was  shaken  with  mirth,  and  Sue  could  not 
help  seeing  that  he  was  having  a  good  time.  She,  however, 
felt  that  no  tranquilly  exciting  day  was  before  her,  as  she 
had  anticipated.  What  wouldn't  that  muscular  fellow  at 
tempt  before  night  ?  He  possessed  a  sort  of  vim  and  cheer 
ful  audacity  which  made  her  tremble,  "jtfe  is  too  confi 
dent,"  she  thought,  "and  needs  a  lesson.  All  this  digging 
is  like  that  of  soldiers  who  soon  mean  to  drop  their  shovels. 
I  don't  propose  to  be  carried  by  storm  just  when  he  gets 
ready.  He  can  have  his  lark,  and  that's  all  to-day.  I 
want  a  good  deal  of  time  to  think  before  I  surrender  to  him 
or  any  one  else." 

During  the  remainder  of  the  forenoon  these  musings  pre 
vented  the  slightest  trace  of  sentimentality  from  appearing 
in  her  face  or  words.  She  had  to  admit  mentally  that  Min- 
turn  gave  her  no  occasion  for  defensive  tactics.  He  attended 
as  strictly  to  business  as  did  Hiram,  and  she  was  allowed  to 


180  TAKEN    ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

come  and  go  at  will.  At  first  she  merely  ventured  to  the 
house,  to  "help  mother,"  as  she  said.  Then,  with  growing 
confidence,  she  went  here  atid  there  to  select  sites  for  trees; 
but  Minturn  dug  on  no  longer  "like  a  steam-engine,"  yet  in 
an  easy,  steady,  effective  way  that  was  a  continual  surprise 
to  the  farmer. 

"Well,  Sue,"  said  her  father  at  last,  "you  and  mother 
ought  to  have  an  extra  dinner;  for  Mr.  Minturn  certainly 
has  earned  one." 

"I  promised  him  only  a  dinner,"  she  replied;  "nothing 
was  said  about  its  being  extra." 

"Quantity  is  all  I'm  thinking  of,"  said  Minturn.  "I 
have  the  sauce  which  will  make  it  a  feast." 

"Beckon  it's  gwine  on  twelve,"  said  Hiram,  cocking  his 
eye  at  the  sun.  "Hadn't  I  better  feed  de  critters  ?" 

"Ah,  old  man!  own  up,  now;  you've  got  a  backache," 
said  Minturn. 

"Dere  is  kin'  ob  a  crik  comin' — " 

"Drop  work,  all  hands,"  cried  Sue.  "Mr.  Minturn  has 
a  'crik'  also,  but  he's  too  proud  to  own  it.  How  you'll 
groan  for  this  to-morrow,  sir!" 

"If  you  take  that  view  of  the  case,  I  may  be  under  the 
necessity  of  giving  proof  positive  to  the  contrary  by  coming 
out  to-morrow." 

"You're  not  half  through  yet.  The  hardest  part  is  to 
come. ' ' 

"Oh,  I  know  that,"  he  replied;  and  he  gave  her  such  a 
humorously  appealing  glance  that  she  turned  quickly  toward 
the  house  to  hide  a  conscious  flush. 

The  farmer  showed  him  to  the  spare-room,  in  which  he 
found  his  belongings.  Left  to  make  his  toilet,  he  muttered, 
"Ah,  better  and  better!  This  is  not  the  regulation  refriger 
ator  into  which  guests  are  put  at  farmhouses.  All  needed 
for  solid  comfort  is  here,  even  to  a  slight  fire  in  the  air 
tight.  Now,  isn't  that  rosy  old  lady  a  jewel  of  a  mother-in- 
law?  She  knows  that  a  warm  man  shouldn't  get  chilled 
just  as  well  as  if  she  had  studied  athletics.  Miss  Sue,  how- 


QUEEN   OF   SPADES  181 

ever,  is  a  little  chilly.  She's  on  the  fence  yet  Jupiter!  I 
am  tired.  Oh,  well,  I  don't  believe  I'll  have  seven  years 
of  this  kind  of  thing.  You  were  right,  though,  old  man,  if 
your  .Rachel  was  like  mine.  What's  that  rustle  in  the  other 
room?  She's  dressing  for  dinner.  So  must  I;  and  I'm 
ready  for  it.  If  she  has  romantic  ideas  about  love  and 
lost  appetites,  I'm  a  goner." 

When  he  descended  to  the  parlor,  his  old  stylish  self 
again,  Sue  was  there,  robed  in  a  gown  which  he  had  admired 
before,  revealing  the  fact  to  her  by  approving  glances.  But 
now  he  said,  "You  don't  look  half  so  well  as  you  did 
before." 

"I  can't  say  that  of  you,"  she  replied. 

"A  man's  looks  are  of  no  consequence." 

"Few  men  think  so." 

"Oh,  they  try  to  please  such  critical  eyes  as  I  now  am 
meeting." 

"And  throw  dust  in  them  too  sometimes." 

"Yes;  gold  dust,  often.     I  haven't  much  of  that." 

"It  would  be  a  pity  to  throw  it  away  if  you  had." 

"No  matter  how  much  was  thrown,  I  don't  think  it 
would  blind  you,  Miss  Banning." 

The  dining-room  door  across  the  hall  opened,  and  the 
host  and  hostess  appeared.  "Why,  father  and  mother,  how 
fine  you  look!" 

"It  would  be  strange  indeed  if  we  did  not  honor  this 
day,"  said  Mrs.  Banning.  "I  hope  you  have  not  so  tired 
yourself,  sir,  that  you  cannot  enjoy  your  dinner.  I  could 
scarcely  believe  my  eyes  as  I  watched  you  from  the 
window." 

"I  am  afraid  I  shall  astonish  you  still  more  at  the  table. 
I  am  simply  ravenous. ' ' 

"This  is  your  chance,"  cried  Sue.  "You  are  now  to  be 
paid  in  the  coin  you  asked  for." 

Sue  did  remark  to  herself  by  the  time  they  reached  des 
sert  and  coffee,  "I  need  have  no  scruples  in  refusing  a  man 
with  such  an  appetite;  he  won't  pine.  He  is  a  lawyer,  sure 


182  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

enough.  He  is  just  winning  father  and  mother  hand  over 
hand." 

Indeed,  the  bosom  of  good  Mrs.  Banning  must  have  been 
environed  with  steel  not  to  have  had  throbs  of  goodwill 
toward  one  who  showed  such  hearty  appreciation  of  her 
capital  dinner.  But  Sue  became  only  the  more  resolved 
that  she  was  not  going  to  yield  so  readily  to  this  muscular 
suitor  who  was  digging  and  eating  his  way  straight  into  the 
hearts  of  her  ancestors,  and  she  proposed  to  be  unusually 
elusive  and  alert  during  the  afternoon.  She  was  a  little 
surprised  when  he  resumed  his  old  tactics. 

After  drinking  a  second  cup  of  coffee,  he  rose,  and  said, 
"As  an  honest  man,  I  have  still  a  great  deal  to  do  after  such 
a  dinner." 

"Well,  it  has  just  done  me  good  to  see  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Banning,  smiling  genially  over  her  old-fashioned  coffee-pot. 
"I  feel  highly  complimented." 

"I  doubt  whether  I  shall  be  equal  to  another  such  com 
pliment  before  the  next  birthday.  I  hope,  Miss  Susie,  you 
have  observed  my  efforts  to  do  honor  to  the  occasion  ?" 

"Oh,"  cried  the  girl,  "I  naturally  supposed  you  were 
trying  to  get  even  in  your  bargain." 

"I  hope  to  be  about  sundown.  I'll  get  into  those  over 
alls  at  once,  and  I  trust  you  will  put  on  your  walking- 
suit." 

"Yes,  it  will  be  a  walking-suit  for  a  short  time.  We 
must  walk  to  the  wood- lot  for  the  trees,  unless  you  prefer 
to  ride. — Father,  please  tell  Hiram  to  get  the  two- horse 
wagon  ready." 

When  the  old  people  were  left  alone,  the  farmer  said, 
"Well,  mother,  Sue  has  got  a  suitor,  and  if  he  don't  suit 
her — "  And  then  his  wit  gave  out. 

"There,  father,  I  never  thought  you'd  come  to  that. 
It's  well  she  has,  for  you  will  soon  have  to  be  taken 
care  of." 

"He's  got  the  muscle  to  do  it.  He  shall  have  my  law- 
business,  anyway." 


QVEEN    OF  SPADES  183 

"Thank  the  Lord,  it  isn't  much;  but  that's  not  saying 
he  shall  have  Sue." 

41  Why,  what  have  you  against  him  ?" 

"Nothing  so  far.  I  was  only  finding  out  if  you  had  any 
thing  against  him." 

"Lawyers,  indeed!  What  would  become  of  the  men  if 
women  turned  lawyers.  Do  you  think  Sue — " 

uHush!" 

They  all  laughed  till  the  tears  came  when  Minturn  again 
appeared  dressed  for  work;  but  he  nonchalantly  lighted  a 
cigar  and  was  entirely  at  his  ease. 

Sue  was  armed  with  thick  gloves  and  a  pair  of  pruning- 
nippers.  Minturn  threw  a  spade  and  pickaxe  on  his  shoul 
der,  and  Mr.  Banning,  whom  Sue  had  warned  threateningly 
''never  to  be  far  away,"  tramped  at  their  side  as  they  went 
up  the  lane.  Apparently  there  was  no  need  of  such  pre 
caution,  for  the  young  man  seemed  wholly  bent  on  getting 
up  the  trees,  most  of  which  she  had  selected  and  marked 
during  recent  rambles.  She  helped  now  vigorously,  pulling 
on  the  young  saplings  as  they  loosened  the  roots,  then  trim 
ming  them  into  shape.  More  than  once,  however,  she  de 
tected  glances,  and  his  thoughts  were  more  flattering  than 
she  imagined.  "What  vigor  she  has  in  that  supple,  rounded 
form!  Her  very  touch  ought  to  put  life  into  these  trees;  I 
know  it  would  into  me.  How  young  she  looks  in  that  com 
ical  old  dress  which  barely  reaches  her  ankles!  Yes,  Hal 
Minturn;  and  remember,  that  trim  little  ankle  can  put  a 
firm  foot  down  for  or  against  you — so  no  blundering." 

He  began  to  be  doubtful  whether  he  would  make  his 
grand  attack  that  day,  and  finally  decided  against  it,  unless 
a  very  favorable  opportunity  occurred,  until  her  plan  of 
birthday-work  had  been  carried  out  and  he  had  fulfilled  the 
obligation  into  which  he  had  entered  in  the  morning.  He 
labored  on  manfully,  seconding  all  her  wishes,  and  taking 
much  pains  to  get  the  young  trees  up  with  an  abundance  of 
fibrous  roots.  At  last  his  assiduity  induced  her  to  relent  a 
little,  and  she  smiled  sympathetically  as  she  remarked,  "I 


184  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

hope  you  are  enjoying  yourself.  Well,  never  mind;  some 
other  day  you  will  fare  better. ' ' 

"Why  should  I  not  enjoy  myself?"  he  asked  in  well- 
feigned  surprise.  "What  condition  of  a  good  time  is  ab 
sent  ?  Even  an  April  day  has  forgotten  to  be  moody,  and 
we  are  having  unclouded,  genial  sunshine.  The  air  is  de 
licious  with  springtime  fragrance.  Were  ever  hemlocks  so 
aromatic  as  these  young  fellows?  They  come  out  of  the 
ground  so  readily  that  one  would  think  them  aware  of  their 
proud  destiny.  Of  course  I'm  enjoying  myself.  Even  the 
robins  and  sparrows  know  it,  and  are  singing  as  if  pos 
sessed.  ' ' 

"Hadn't  you  better  give  up  your  law- office  and  turn 
farmer?" 

"This  isn't  farming.     This  is  embroidery-work. " 

"Well,  if  all  these  trees  grow  they  will  embroider  the 
old  place,  won't  they?" 

"They'll  grow,  every  mother's  son  of  'em." 

"What  makes  you  so  confident?" 

"I'm  not  confident.  That's  where  you  are  mistaken." 
And  he  gave  her  such  a  direct,  keen  look  that  she  suddenly 
found  something  to  do  elsewhere. 

"I  declare!"  she  exclaimed  mentally,  "he  seems  to  read 
my  very  thoughts. ' ' 

At  last  the  wagon  was  loaded  with  trees  enough  to  oc 
cupy  the  holes  which  had  been  dug,  and  they  started  for 
the  vicinity  of  the  farmhouse  again.  Mr.  Banning  had  no 
match-making  proclivities  where  Sue  was  concerned,  as  may 
be  well  understood,  and  had  never  been  far  off.  Minturn, 
however,  had  appeared  so  single-minded  in  his  work,  so  in 
nocent  of  all  designs  upon  his  daughter,  that  the  old  man 
began  to  think  that  this  day's  performance  was  only  a  tenta 
tive  and  preliminary  skirmish,  and  that  if  there  were  danger 
it  lurked  in  the  unknown  future.  He  was  therefore  inclined 
to  be  less  vigilant,  reasoning  philosophically,  "I  suppose  it's 
got  to  come  some  time  or  other.  It  looks  as  if  Sue  might 
go  a  good  deal  further  than  this  young  man  and  fare  worse. 


QUEEN   OF  SPADES  186 

But  then  she's  only  eighteen,  and  he  knows  it  I  guess  he's 
got  sense  enough  not  to  plant  his  corn  till  the  sun's  higher. 
He  can  see  with  half  an  eye  that  my  little  girl  isn't  ready 
to  drop,  like  an  over-ripe  apple."  Thus  mixing  metaphors 
and  many  thoughts,  he  hurried  ahead  to  open  the  gate  for 
Hiram. 

"I'm  in  for  it  now,"  thought  Sue,  and  she  instinctively 
assumed  an  indifferent  expression  and  talked  volubly  of  trees. 

"Yes,  Miss  Banning,"  he  said  formally,  "by  the  time 
your  hair  is  tinged  with  gray  the  results  of  this  day's  labor 
will  be  seen  far  and  wide.  No  passenger  in  the  cars,  no 
traveller  in  the  valley,  but  will  turn  his  eyes  admiringly 
in  this  direction." 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  travellers,"  she  answered,  "but  of 
making  an  attractive  home  in  which  I  can  grow  old  con 
tentedly.  Some  day  when  you  have  become  a  gray- haired 
and  very  dignified  judge  you  may  come  out  and  dine  with 
us  again.  You  can  then  smoke  your  cigar  under  a  tree 
which  you  helped  to  plant." 

"Certainly,  Miss  Banning.  With  such  a  prospect,  how 
could  you  doubt  that  I  was  enjoying  myself?  What  sug 
gested  the  judge  ?  My  present  appearance  ?" 

The  incongruity  of  the  idea  with  his  absurd  aspect  and 
a  certain  degree  of  nervousness  set  her  off  again,  and  she 
startled  the  robins  by  a  laugh  as  loud  and  clear  as  their 
wild  notes. 

"I  don't  care,"  she  cried.  "I've  had  a  jolly  birthday, 
and  am  accomplishing  all  on  which  I  had  set  my  heart." 

"Yes,  and  a  great  deal  more,  Miss  Banning,"  he  replied 
with  a  formal  bow.  "In  all  your  scheming  you  hadn't  set 
your  heart  on  my  coming  out  and — does  modesty  permit 
me  to  say  it? — helping  a  little." 

"Now,  you  have  helped  wonderfully,  and  you  must  not 
think  I  don't  appreciate  it." 

"Ah,  how  richly  I  am  rewarded!" 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  laughing  and  perplexed  little 
frown,  but  only  said,  "No  irony,  sir." 


186  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

By  this  time  they  had  joined  her  father  and  begun  to  set 
out  the  row  of  hemlocks.  To  her  surprise,  Sue  had  found 
herself  a  little  disappointed  that  he  had  not  availed  himself 
of  his  one  opportunity  to  be  at  least  "a  bit  friendly"  as 
she  phrased  it.  It  was  mortifying  to  a  girl  to  be  expecting 
"something  awkward  to  meet"  and  nothing  of  the  kind 
take  place.  "After  all,"  she  thought,  "perhaps  he  came 
out  just  for  a  lark,  or,  worse  still,  is  amusing  himself  at  my 
expense;  or  he  may  have  come  on  an  exploring  expedition 
and  plain  old  father  and  mother,  and  the  plain  little  farm 
house,  have  satisfied  him.  Well,  the  dinner  wasn't  very 
plain,  but  he  may  have  been  laughing  in  his  sleeve  at  our 
lack  of  style  in  serving  it.  Then  this  old  dress!  I  prob 
ably  appear  to  him  a  perfect  guy."  And  she  began  to  hate 
it,  and  devoted  it  to  the  rag-bag  the  moment  she  could 
get  it  off. 

This  line  of  thought,  once  begun,  seemed  so  rational 
that  she  wondered  it  had  not  occurred  to  her  before.  ' '  The 
idea  of  my  being  so  ridiculously  on  the  defensive!"  she 
thought.  "No,  it  wasn't  ridiculous  either,  as  far  as  my 
action  went,  for  he  can  never  say  I  acted  as  if  I  wanted  him 
to  speak.  My  conceit  in  expecting  him  to  speak  the  mo 
ment  he  got  a  chance  was  absurd.  He  has  begun  to  be 
very  polite  and  formal.  That's  always  the  way  with  men 
when  they  want  to  back  out  of  anything.  He  came  out  to 
look  us  over,  and  me  in  particular;  he  made  himself  into 
a  scarecrow  just  because  I  looked  like  one,  and  now  will 
go  home  and  laugh  it  all  over  with  his  city  friends.  Oh, 
why  did  he  come  and  spoil  my  day  ?  Even  he  said  it  was 
my  day,  and  he  has  done  a  mean  thing  in  spoiling  it.  Well, 
he  may 'not  carry  as  much  self-complacency  back  to  town 
as  he  thinks  he  will.  Such  a  cold-blooded  spirit,  too! — to 
come  upon  us  unawares  in  order  to  spy  out  everything,  for 
fear  he  might  get  taken  in !  You  were  very  attentive  and 
flattering  in  the  city,  sir,  but  now  you  are  disenchanted. 
Well,  so  ami." 

Under  the  influence  of  this  train  of  thought  she  grew 


QUEEN    OF  SPADES  187 

more  and  more  silent.  The  sun  was  sinking  westward  in 
undimmed  splendor,  but  her  face  was  clouded.  The  air  was 
sweet,  balmy,  well  adapted  to  sentiment  and  the  setting  out 
of  trees,  but  she  was  growing  frosty. 

"Hiram,"  she  said  shortly,  "you've  got  that  oak  crooked; 
let  me  hold  it."  And  thereafter,  she  held  the  trees  for  the 
old  colored  man  as  he  filled  in  the  earth  around  them. 

Minturn  appeared  as  oblivious  as  he  was  keenly  ob 
servant.  At  first  the  change  in  Sue  puzzled  and  discour 
aged  him;  then,  as  his  acute  mind  sought  her  motives,  a 
rosy  light  began  to  dawn  upon  him.  "I  may  be  wrong," 
he  thought,  "but  I'll  take  my  chances  in  acting  as  if  I  were 
right  before  I  go  home." 

At  last  Hiram  said:  "Reckon  I'll  have  to  feed  de  critters 
again;"  and  he  slouched  off. 

Sue  nipped  at  the  young  trees  further  and  further  away 
from  the  young  man  who  must  "play  spy  before  being 
lover."  The  spy  helped  Mr.  Banning  set  out  the  last  tree. 
Meantime,  the  complacent  farmer  had  mused:  "The  little 
girl's  safe  for  another  while,  anyhow.  Never  saw  her  more 
offish;  but  things  looked  squally  about  dinner-time.  Then, 
she's  only  eighteen;  time  enough  years  hence."  At  last  he 
said  affably,  "I'll  go  in  and  hasten  supper,  for  you've  earned 
it  if  ever  a  man  did,  Mr.  Minturn.  Then  I'll  drive  you  down 
to  the  evening  train."  And  he  hurried  away. 

Sue's  back  was  toward  them,  and  she  did  not  hear  Min 
turn' s  step  until  he  was  close  beside  her.  "All  through," 
he  said;  "every  tree  out.  I  congratulate  you;  for  rarely  in 
this  vale  of  tears  are  plans  and  hopes  crowned  with  better 
success. ' ' 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  hastened  to  reply;  "I  am  more  than  satis 
fied.  I  hope  that  you  are  too." 

"I  have  no  reason  to  complain,"  he  said.  "You  have 
stood  by  your  morning's  bargain,  as  I  have  tried  to." 

"It  was  your  own  fault,  Mr.  Minturn,  that  it  was  so 
one-sided.  But  I've  no  doubt  you  enjoy  spicing  your  city 
life  with  a  little  lark  in  the  country. ' ' 


188  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER  ^STORIES 

"It  was  a  one-sided  bargain,  and  I  have  had  the  best 
of  it." 

"Perhaps  you  have,"  she  admitted.  "I  think  supper 
will  be  ready  by  the  time  we  are  ready  for  it."  And  she 
turned  toward  the  house.  Then  she  added,  "You  must  be 
weary  and  anxious  to  get  away." 

"You  were  right;  my  bones  do  ache.  And  look  at  my 
hands.  I  know  you'll  say  they  need  washing;  but  count 
the  blisters. ' ' 

"I  also  said,  Mr.  Minturn,  that  you  would  know  better 
next  time.  So  you  see  I  was  right  then  and  am  right  now. ' ' 

"Are  you  perfectly  sure?" 

"I  see  no  reason  to  think  otherwise."  In  turning,  she 
had  faced  a  young  sugar-maple  which  he  had  aided  her  in 
planting  early  in  the  afternoon.  Now  she  snipped  at  it 
nervously  with  her  pruning-shears,  for  he  would  not  budge, 
and  she  felt  it  scarcely  polite  to  leave  him. 

"Well,"  he  resumed,  after  an  instant,  "it  has  a  good 
look,  hasn't  it,  for  a  man  to  fulfil  an  obligation  literally?" 

"Certainly,  Mr.  Minturn,"  and  there  was  a  tremor  in  her 
tone;  "but  you  have  done  a  hundred-fold  more  than  I  ex 
pected,  and  never  were  under  any  obligations." 

"Then  I  am  free  to  begin  again?" 

"You  are  as  free  now  as  you  have  been  all  day  to  do 
what  you  please."  And  her  shears  were  closing  on  the 
main  stem  of  the  maple.  He  caught  and  stayed  her  hand. 
"I  don't  care!"  she  cried  almost  passionately.  "Come,  let 
us  go  in  and  end  this  foolish  talk." 

"But  I  do  care,"  he  replied,  taking  the  shears  from  her, 
yet  retaining  her  hand  in  his  strong  grasp.  "I  helped  you 
plant  this  tree,  and  whenever  you  see  it,  whenever  you  care 
for  it,  when,  in  time,  you  sit  under  its  shade  or  wonder  at 
its  autumn  hues,  I  wish  you  to  remember  that  I  told  you 
of  my  love  beside  it.  Dear  little  girl,  do  you  think  I  am 
such  a  blind  fool  that  I  could  spend  this  long  day  with  you 
at  your  home  and  not  feel  sorry  that  I  must  ever  go  away  ? 
If  1  could,  my  very  touch  should  turn  the  sap  of  this  maple 


QUEEN   OF  SPADES  189 

into  vinegar.  To-day  I've  only  tried  to  show  how  I  can 
work  for  you.  I  am  eager  to  begin  again,  and  for  life." 

At  first  Sue  had  tried  to  withdraw  her  hand,  but  its 
tenseness  relaxed.  As  he  spoke,  she  turned  her  averted 
face  slowly  toward  him,  and  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun 
flashed  a  deeper  crimson  into  her  cheeks.  Her  honest  eyes 
looked  into  his  and  were  satisfied.  Then  she  suddenly 
gathered  the  young  tree  against  her  heart  and  kissed  the 
stem  she  had  so  nearly  severed.  "This  maple  is  witness  to 
what  you've  said,"  she  faltered.  "Ah!  but  it  will  be  a 
sugar-maple  in  truth;  and  if  petting  will  make  it  live — 
there,  now!  behave!  The  idea!  right  out  on  this  bare 
lawn!  You.  must  wait  till  the  screening  evergreens  grow 
before —  Oh,  you  audacious — I  haven't  promised  any 
thing." 

"I  promise  everything.  I'm  engaged,  and  only  taking 
my  retaining-fees. " 

"Mother,"  cried  Farmer  Banning  at  the  dining-room 
window,  "just  look  yonder!" 

"And  do  you  mean  to  say,  John  Banning,  that  you 
didn't  expect  it?" 

"Why,  Sue  was  growing  more  and  more  offish." 

1 '  Of  course !     Don ' t  you  remember  ?' ' 

"Oh,  this  unlucky  birthday!  As  if  trees  could  take 
Sue's  place!" 

"Yah!"  chuckled  Hiram  from  the  barn  door,  "I  knowed 
dat  ar  gem'lin  was  a-diggin'  a  hole  fer  hisself  on  dis  farm." 

"Mr.  Minturn— "  Sue  began  as  they  came  toward  the 
house  arm  in  arm. 

"Hal — "  he  interrupted. 

"Well,  then,  Mr.  Hal,  you  must  promise  me  one  thing 
in  dead  earnest.  I'm  the  only  chick  father  and  mother  have. 
You  must  be  very  considerate  of  them,  and  let  me  give 
them  as  much  of  my  time  as  I  can.  This  is  all  that  I  stip 
ulate;  but  this  I  do." 

"Sue,"  he  said  in  mock  solemnity,  "the  prospects  are  that 
you'll  be  a  widow  " 


190  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

14  Why  do  you  make  such  an  absurd  remark  ?" 

"Because  you  have  struck  amidships  the  commandment 
with  the  promise,  and  your  days  will  be  long  in  the  land. 
You'll  outlive  everybody." 

"This  will  be  no  joke  for  lather  and  mother." 

So  it  would  appear.  They  sat  in  the  parlor  as  if  waiting 
for  the  world  to  come  to  an  end — as  indeed  it  had,  one 
phase  of  it,  to  them.  Their  little  girl,  in  a  sense,  was  theirs 
no  longer. 

"Father,  mother,"  said  Sue,  demurely,  "I  must  break 
some  news  to  you." 

"It's  broken  already,"  began  Mrs.  Banning,  putting  her 
handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 

Sue's  glance  renewed  her  reproaches  for  the  scene  on  the 
lawn;  but  Minturn  went  promptly  forward,  and  throwing 
his  arm  around  the  matron's  plump  shoulders,  gave  his  first 
filial  kiss. 

"Come,  mother,"  he  said,  "Sue  has  thought  of  you 
both;  and  I've  given  her  a  big  promise  that  I  won't  take 
any  more  of  her  away  than  I  can  help.  And  you,  sir," 
wriaging  the  farmer's  hand,  "will  often  see  a  city  tramp 
here  who  will  be  glad  to  work  for  his  dinner.  These  over 
alls  are  my  witness. ' ' 

Then  they  became  conscious  of  his  absurd  figure,  and  the 
scene  ended  in  laughter  that  was  near  akin  to  tears. 

The  maple  lived,  you  may  rest  assured;  and  Sue's  chil 
dren  said  there  never  was  such  sugar  as  the  sap  of  that  tree 
yielded. 

All  the  hemlocks,  oaks,  and  dogwood  thrived  as  if  con 
scious  that  theirs  had  been  no  ordinary  transplanting;  while 
Minturn's  half-jesting  prophecy  concerning  the  travellers  in 
the  valley  was  amply  fulfilled. 


AN    UNEXPECTED    RESULT 


"    1  ACK,  she  played  with  me  deliberately,  heartlessly. 

I  can  never  forgive  her. ' ' 

^-J  "In  that  case,  Will,  I  congratulate  you.     Such  a 

girl  isn't  worth  a  second  thought,  and  you've  made  a  happy 
escape. ' ' 

"No  congratulations,  if  you  please.  You  can  talk  coolly, 
because  in  regard  to  such  matters  you  are  cool,  and,  I  may 
add,  a  trifle  cold.  Ambition  is  your  mistress,  and  a  musty 
law-book  has  more  attractions  for  you  than  any  woman 
living.  I'm  not  so  tempered.  I  am  subject  to  the  general 
law  of  nature,  and  a  woman's  love  and  sympathy  are  essen 
tial  to  success  in  my  life  and  work." 

"That's  all  right;  but  there  are  as  good  fish — " 
"Oh,  have  done  with  your  trite  nonsense,"  interrupted 
Will  Munson,  impatiently.  "I'd  consult  you  on  a  point 
of  law  in  preference  to  most  of  the  graybeards,  but  I  was 
a  fool  to  speak  of  this  affair.  And  yet  as  my  most  intimate 
friend-1' 

"Come,  Will,  I'm  not  unfeeling;"  and  John  Ackland 
rose  and  put  his  hand  on  his  friend's  shoulder.  "I  admit 
that  the  subject  is  remote  from  my  line  of  thought  an'd 
wholly  beyond  my  experience.  If  the  affair  is  so  serious 
I  shall  take  it  to  heart." 

"Serious!     Is  it  a  slight  thing  to  be  crippled  for  life ?" 

"Oh,  come,   now,"   said  Ackland,   giving  his  friend  a 

hearty  and  encouraging  thump,  "you  are  sound  in  mind 

and  limb;  what  matters  a  scratch  on  the  heart  to  a  man  not 

twenty- five?" 

(191) 


192  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

""Very  well;  I'll  say  no  more  about  it.  When  I  need  a 
lawyer  I'll  come  to  you.  Good-by;  I  sail  for  Brazil  in  the 
morning." 

"Will,  sit  down  and  look  me  in  the  eyes,"  said  Ack- 
land,  decisively.  "Will,  forgive  me.  You  are  in  trouble. 
A  man's  eyes  usually  tell  me  more  than  all  his  words,  and 
I  don't  like  the  expression  of  yours.  There  is  yellow  fever 
in  Brazil. ' ' 

"I  know  it,"  was  the  careless  reply. 

"What  excuse  have  you  for  going?" 

"Business  complications  have  arisen  there,  and  I  promptly 
volunteered  to  go.  My  employers  were  kind  enough  to  hesi 
tate  and  warn  me,  and  to  say  that  they  could  send  a  man  less 
valuable  to  them,  but  I  soon  overcame  their  objections." 

"That  is  your  excuse  for  going.  The  reason  I  see  in 
your  eyes.  You  are  reckless,  Will." 

"I  have  reason  to  be." 

"I  can't  agree^with  you,  but  I  feel  for  you  all  the  same. 
Tell  me  all  about  it,  for  this  is  sad  news  to  me.  I  had  hoped 
to  join  you  on  the  beach  in  a  few  days,  and  to  spend  August 
with  you  and  my  cousin.  I  confess  I  am  beginning  to  feel 
exceedingly  vindictive  toward  this  pretty  little  monster,  and 
if  any  harm  comes  to  you  I  shall  be  savage  enough  to  scalp 
her." 

"The  harm  has  come  already,  Jack.  I'm  hit  hard.  She 
showed  me  a  mir&ge  of  happiness  that  has  made  my  present 
world  a  desert.  I  am  reckless;  I'm  desperate.  You  may 
think  it  is  weak  and  unmanly,  but  you  don't  know  anything 
about  it.  Time  or  the  fever  may  cure  me,  but  now  I  am 
bankrupt  in  all  that  gives  value  to  life.  A  woman  with 
an  art  so  consummate  that  it  seemed  artless,  deliberately 
evoked  the  best  there  was  in  me,  then  threw  it  away  as 
indifferently  as  a  cast-off  glove." 

"Tell  me  how  it  came  about." 

"flow  can  I  tell  you?  How  can  I  in  cold  blood  recall 
glances,  words,  intonations,  the  pressure  of  a  hand  that 
seemed  alive  with  reciprocal  feeling?  In  addition  to  her 


AN    UNEXPECTED   RESULT  193 

beauty  she  had  the  irresistible  charm  of  fascination.  I  was 
wary  at  first,  but  she  angled  for  me  with  a  skill  that  would 
have  disarmed  any  man  who  did  not  believe  in  the  inherent 
falseness  of  woman.  The  children  in  the  house  idolized 
her,  and  I  have  great  faith  in  a  child's  intuitions." 

"Oh,  that  was  only  a  part  of  her  guile,"  said  Ackland, 
frowningly. 

"Probably;  at  any  rate  she  has  taken  all  the  color  and 
zest  out  of  my  life.  I  wish  some  one  could  pay  her  back  in 
her  own  coin.  I  don't  suppose  she  has  a  heart;  but  I  wish 
her  vanity  might  be  wounded  in  a  way  that  would  teach  her 
a  lesson  never  to  be  forgotten." 

"It  certainly  would  be  a  well-deserved  retribution," 
said  Ackland,  musingly. 

"Jack,  you  are  the  one,  of  all  the  world,  to  administer 
the  punishment.  I  don't  believe  a  woman's  smiles  ever 
quickened  your  pulse  one  beat." 

"You  are  right,  Will,  it  is  my  cold-bloodedness — to  put 
your  thought  in  plain  English — that  will  prove  your  best 
ally." 

"I  only  hope  that  I  am  not  leading  you  into  danger. 
You  will  need  an  Indian's  stoicism." 

' '  Bah !  I  may  fail  ignominiously,  and  find  her  vanity  in 
vulnerable,  but  I  pledge  you  my  word  that  I  will  avenge 
you  if  it  be  within  the  compass  of  my  skill.  My  cousin, 
Mrs.  Alston,  may  prove  a  useful  ally.  I  think  you  wrote 
me  that  the  name  of  this  siren  was  Eva  Van  Tyne  ?" 

"Yes;  I  only  wish  she  had  the  rudiments  of  a  heart,  so 
that  she  might  feel  in  a  faint,  far-off  way  a  little  of  the  pain 
she  has  inflicted  on  me.  Don't  let  her  make  you  falter  or 
grow  remorseful,  Jack.  Eemember  that  you  have  given  a 
pledge  to  one  who  may  be  dead  before  you  can  fulfil  it. ' ' 

Ackland  said  farewell  to  his  friend  with  the  fear  that  he 
might  never  see  him  again,  and  a  few  days  later  found  him 
self  at  a  New  England  seaside  resort,  with  a  relentless  pur 
pose  lurking  in  his  dark  eyes.  Mrs.  Alston  did  uncon 
sciously  prove  a  useful  ally,  for  her  wealth  and  elegance 

9— ROE— XI 


194  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND   OTHER   STORIES 

gave  her  unusual  prestige  in  the  house,  and  in  joining  her 
party  Ackland  achieved  immediately  all  the  social  recogni 
tion  he  desired. 

While  strolling  with  this  lady  on  the  piazza  he  observed 
the  object  of  his  quest,  and  was  at  once  compelled  to  make 
more  allowance  than  he  had  done  hitherto  for  his  friend's 
discomfiture.  Two  or  three  children  were  leaning  over  the 
young  girl's  chair,  and  she  was  amusing  them  by  some 
clever  caricatures.  She  was  not  so  interested,  however, 
but  that  she  soon  noted  the  new-comer,  and  bestowed  upon 
him  from  time  to  time  curious  and  furtive  glances.  That 
these  were  not  returned  seemed  to  occasion  her  some  sur 
prise,  for  she  was  not  accustomed  to  be  so  utterly  ignored, 
even  by  a  stranger.  A  little  later  Ackland  saw  her  consult 
ing  the  hotel  register. 

"I  have  at  least  awakened  her  curiosity,"  he  thought. 

"I've  been  waiting  for  you  to  ask  me  who  that  pretty 
girl  is,"  said  Mrs.  Alton,  laughing;  "you  do  indeed  exceed 
all  men  in  indifference  to  women." 

"I  know  all  about  that  girl,"  was  the  grim  reply.  "She 
has  played  the  very  deuce  with  my  friend  Munson. " 

"Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Alston,  indignantly,  "it  was  the 
most  shameful  piece  of  coquetry  I  ever  saw.  She  is  a  puz 
zle  to  me.  To  the  children  and  the  old  people  in  the  house 
she  is  consideration  and  kindness  itself;  but  she  appears  to 
regard  men  of  your  years  as  legitimate  game  and  is  perfectly 
remorseless.  So  beware!  She  is  dangerous,  invulnerable 
as  you  imagine  yourself  to  be.  She  will  practice  her  wiles 
upon  you  if  you  give  her  half  a  chance,  and  her  art  has 
much  more  than  her  pretty  face  to  enforce  it.  She  is 
unusually  clever." 

Ackland' s  slight  shrug  was  so  contemptuous  that  his 
cousin  was  nettled,  and  she  thought,  "I  wish  the  girl  could 
disturb  his  complacent  equanimity  just  a  little.  It  vexes 
one  to  see  a  man  so  indifferent;  it's  a  slight  to  woman;"  and 
she  determined  to  give  Miss  Van  Tyne  the  vantage-ground 
of  an  introduction  at  the  first  opportunity 


AN    UNEXPECTED    RESULT  195 

And  this  occurred  before  the  evening  was  over.  To  her 
surprise  Ackland  entered  into  an  extended  conversation 
with  the  enemy.  "Well,"  she  thought,  "if  he  begins  in 
this  style  there  will  soon  be  another  victim.  Miss  Van 
Tyne  can  talk  to  as  bright  a  man  as  he  is  and  hold  her 
own.  Meanwhile  she  will  assail  him  in  a  hundred  covert 
ways.  Out  of  regard  for  his  friend  he  should  have  shown 
some  disapproval  of  her;  but  there  he  sits  quietly  talking 
in  the  publicity  of  the  parlor. ' ' 

"Mrs.  Alston,"  said  a  friend  at  her  elbow,  "you  ought  to 
forewarn  your  cousin  and  tell  him  of  Mr.  Munson's  fate." 

"He  knows  all  about  Mr.  Munson, "  was  her  reply.  "In 
deed,  the  latter  is  his  most  intimate  friend.  I  suppose  my 
cousin  is  indulging  in  a  little  natural  curiosity  concerning 
this  destroyer  of  masculine  peace,  and  if  ever  a  man  could 
do  so  in  safety  he  can. ' ' 

"Why  so?" 

"Well,  I  never  knew  so  unsusceptible  a  man.  With  the 
exception  of  a  few  of  his  relatives,  he  has  never  cared  for 
ladies'  society." 

Mrs.  Alston  was  far  astray  in  supposing  that  curiosity 
was  Ackland' s  motive  in  his  rather  prolonged  conversation 
with  Miss  Van  Tyne.  It  was  simply  part  of  his  tactics,  for 
he  proposed  to  waste  no  time  in  skirmishing  or  in  guarded 
and  gradual  approaches.  He  would  cross  weapons  at 
once,  and  secure  his  object  by  a  sharp  and  aggressive  cam 
paign.  His  object  was  to  obtain  immediately  some  idea  of 
the  calibre  of  the  girl's  mind,  and  in  this  respect  he  was 
agreeably  surprised,  for  while  giving  little  evidence  of 
thorough  education,  she  was  unusually  intelligent  and  ex 
ceedingly  quick  in  her  perceptions.  He  soon  learned  also 
that  she  was  gifted  with  more  than  woman's  customary  in 
tuition,  that  she  was  watching  his  face  closely  for  meanings 
that  he  might  not  choose  to  express  in  words  or  else  to  con 
ceal  by  his  language.  While  he  feared  that  his  task  would 
be  far  more  difficult  than  he  expected,  and  that  he  would 
have  to  be  extremely  guarded  in  order  not  to  reveal  his  de- 


196  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

sign,  he  was  glad  to  learn  that  the  foe  was  worthy  of  his 
steel.  Meanwhile  her  ability  and  self-reliance  banished  all 
compunction.  He  had  no  scruples  in  humbling  the  pride 
of  a  woman  who  was  at  once  so  proud,  so  heartless,  and  so 
clever.  Nor  would  the  effort  be  wearisome,  for  she  had 
proved  herself  both  amusing  and  interesting.  He  might 
enjoy  it  quite  as  much  as  an  intricate  law  case. 

Even  prejudiced  Ackland,  as  he  saw  her  occasionally 
on  the  following  day,  was  compelled  to  admit  that  she  was 
more  than  pretty.  Her  features  were  neither  regular  nor 
faultless.  Her  mouth  was  too  large  to  be  perfect,  and  her 
nose  was  not  Grecian;  but  her  eyes  were  peculiarly  fine 
and  illumined  her  face,  whose  chief  charm  lay  in  its  power 
of  expression.  If  she  chose,  almost  all  her  thoughts  and 
feelings  could  find  their  reflex  there.  The  trouble  was  that 
she  could  as  readily  mask  her  thought  and  express  what  she 
did  not  feel.  Her  eyes  were  of  the  darkest  blue  and  her 
hair  seemed  light  in  contrast.  It  was  evident  that  she  had 
studied  grace  so  thoroughly  that  her  manner  and  carriage 
appeared  unstudied  and  natural.  She  never  seemed  self- 
conscious,  and  yet  no  one  had  ever  seen  her  in  an  ungainly 
posture  or  had  known  her  to  make  an  awkward  gesture. 
This  grace,  however,  like  a  finished  style  in  writing,  was 
tinged  so  strongly  with  her  own  individuality  that  it  ap 
peared  original  as  compared  with  the  fashionable  monotony 
which  characterized  the  manners  of  so  many  of  her  age. 
She  could  not  have  been  much  more  than  twenty ;  and  yet, 
as  Mrs.  Alston  took  pains  to  inform  her  cousin,  she  had 
long  been  in  society,  adding,  "Its  homage  is  her  breath  of 
life,  and  from  all  I  hear  your  friend  Munson  has  had  many 
predecessors.  Be  on  your  guard. ' ' 

"Your  solicitude  in  my  behalf  is  quite  touching,"  he 
replied.  "Who  is  this  fair  buccaneer  that  has  made  so 
many  wrecks  and  exacts  so  heavy  a  revenue  from  society  ? 
Who  has  the  care  of  her  and  what  are  her  antecedents?" 

"She  is  an  orphan,  and  possessed,  1  am  told,  of  consid 
erable  property  in  her  own  name.  A  forceless,  nerveless 


AN    UNEXPECTED    RESULT  197 

maiden  aunt  is  about  the  only  antecedent  we  see  much  of. 
Her  guardian  has  been  here  once  or  twice,  but  practically 
she  is  independent" 

Miss  Van  Tyne's  efforts  to  learn  something  concerning 
Ackland  were  apparently  quite  as  casual  and  indifferent  and 
yet  were  made  with  utmost  skill.  She  knew  that  Mrs.  Al 
ston's  friend  was  something  of  a  gossip;  and  she  led  her  to 
speak  of  the  subject  of  her  thoughts  with  an  indirect  finesse 
that  would  have  amused  the  young  man  exceedingly  could 
he  have  been  an  unobserved  witness.  When  she  learned  that 
he  was  Mr.  Munson's  intimate  friend  and  that  he  was  aware 
of  her  treatment  of  the  latter,  she  was  somewhat  discon 
certed.  One  so  forewarned  might  not  become  an  easy  prey. 
But  the  additional  fact  that  he  was  almost  a  woman-hater 
put  her  upon  her  mettle  at  once,  and  she  felt  that  here  was 
a  chance  for  a  conquest  such  as  she  had  never  made  before. 
She  now  believed  that  she  had  discovered  the  key  to  his  in 
difference.  He  was  ready  enough  to  amuse  himself  with 
her  as  a  clever  woman,  but  knew  her  too  well  to  bestow 
upon  her  even  a  friendly  thought. 

"If  I  can  bring  him  to  my  feet  it  will  be  a  triumph  in 
deed,"  she  murmured  exultantly;  "and  at  my  feet  he  shall 
be  if  he  gives  me  half  a  chance. ' '  Seemingly  he  gave  her 
every  chance  that  she  could  desire,  and  while  he  scarcely 
made  any  effort  to  seek  her  society,  she  noted  with  secret 
satisfaction  that  he  often  appeared  as  if  accidentally  near 
her,  and  that  he  ever  made  it  the  easiest  and  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world  for  her  to  join  him.  His  conversation 
was  often  as  gay  and  unconventional  as  she  could  wish;  but 
she  seldom  failed  to  detect  in  it  an  uncomfortable  element 
of  satire  and  irony.  He  always  left  her  dissatisfied  with 
herself  and  with  a  depressing  consciousness  that  she  had 
made  no  impression  upon  him. 

His  conquest  grew  into  an  absorbing  desire;  and  she 
unobtrusively  brought  to  bear  upon  him  every  art  and 
fascination  that  she  possessed.  Her  toilets  were  as  ex 
quisite  as  they  were  simple.  The  children  were  made  to 


198  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

idolize  her  more  than  ever;  but  Ackland  was  candid 
enough  to  admit  that  this  was  not  all  guile  on  her  part, 
for  she  was  evidently  in  sympathy  with  the  little  people, 
who  can  rarely  be  imposed  upon  by  any  amount  of  false 
interest.  Indeed,  he  saw  no  reason  to  doubt  that  she 
abounded  in  good-nature  toward  all  except  the  natural 
objects  of  her  ruling  passion;  but  the  very  skill  and  de- 
liberateness  with  which  she  sought  to  gratify  this  passion 
greatly  increased  his  vindictive  feeling.  He  saw  how  natu 
rally  and  completely  his  friend  had  been  deceived  and  how 
exquisite  must  have  been  the  hopes  and  anticipations  so 
falsely  raised.  Therefore  he  smiled  more  grimly  at  the 
close  of  each  succeeding  day,  and  was  more  than  ever  bent 
upon  the  accomplishment  of  his  purpose. 

At  length  Miss  Van  Tyne  changed  her  tactics  and  grew 
quite  oblivious  to  Ackland's  presence  in  the  house;  but  she 
found  him  apparently  too  indifferent  to  observe  the  fact. 
She  then  permitted  one  of  her  several  admirers  to  become 
devoted;  Ackland  did  not  offer  the  protest  of  even  a  glance. 
He  stood,  as  it  were,  just  where  she  had  left  him,  ready 
for  an  occasional  chat,  stroll,  or  excursion,  if  the  affair  came 
about  naturally  and  without  much  effort  on  his  part.  She 
found  that  she  could  neither  induce  him  to  seek  her  nor 
annoy  him  by  an  indifference  which  she  meant  should  be 
more  marked  than  his  own. 

Some  little  time  after  there  came  a  windy  day  when  the 
surf  was  so  heavy  that  there  were  but  few  bathers.  Ack 
land  was  a  good  swimmer,  and  took  his  plunge  as  usual. 
He  was  leaving  the  water  when  Miss  Van  Tyne  ran  down 
the  beach  and  was  about  to  dart  through  the  breakers  in 
her  wonted  fearless  style. 

"Be  careful,"  he  said  to  her;  "the  undertow  is  strong, 
and  the  man  who  has  charge  of  the  bathing  is  ill  and  not 
here.  The  tide  is  changing — in  fact,  running  out  already, 
I  believe."  But  she  would  not  even  look  at  him,  much  less 
answer.  As  there  were  other  gentlemen  present,  he  started 
for  his  bath-house,  but  had  proceeded  but  a  little  way  up 


AN    UNEXPECTED    RESULT  199 

the  beach  before  a  cry  brought  him  to  the  water's  edge 
instantly. 

"Something  is  wrong  with  Miss  Van  Tyne,"  cried  half 
a  dozen  voices.  "She  ventured  out  recklessly,  and  it  seems 
as  if  she  couldn't  get  back." 

At  that  moment  her  form  rose  on  the  crest  of  a  wave, 
and  above  the  thunder  of  the  surf  came  her  faint  cry, 
"Help!" 

The  other  bathers  stood  irresolute,  for  she  was  danger 
ously  far  out,  and  the  tide  had  evidently  turned.  Ackland, 
on  the  contrary,  dashed  through  the  breakers  and  then,  in 
his  efforts  for  speed,  dived  through  the  waves  nearest  to  the 
shore.  When  he  reached  the  place  where  he  expected  to 
find  her  he  saw  nothing  for  a  moment  or  two  but  great 
crested  billows  that  every  moment  were  increasing  in  height 
under  the  rising  wind.  For  a  moment  he  feared  that  she 
had  perished,  and  the  thought  that  the  beautiful  creature 
had  met  her  death  so  suddenly  and  awfully  made  him  al 
most  sick  and  faint.  An  instant  later,  however,  a  wave 
threw  her  up  from  the  trough  of  the  sea  into  full  vision 
somewhat  on  his  right,  and  a  few  strong  strokes  brought 
him  to  her  side. 

"Oh,  save  me!"  she  gasped. 

"Don't  cling  to  me,"  he  said  sternly.  "Do  as  I  bid  you. 
Strike  out  for  the  shore  if  you  are  able;  if  not,  lie  on  your 
back  and  float." 

She  did  the  latter,  for  now  that  aid  had  reached  her  she 
apparently  recovered  from  her  panic  and  was  perfectly 
tractable.  He  placed  his  left  hand  under  her  and  struck 
out  quietly,  aware  that  the  least  excitement  causing  ex 
haustion  on  his  part  might  cost  both  of  them  their  lives. 

As  they  approached  the  shore  a  rope  was  thrown  to  them, 
and  Ackland,  who  felt  his  strength  giving  way,  seized  it 
desperately.  He  passed  his  arm  around  his  companion  with 
a  grasp  that  almost  made  her  breathless,  and  they  were 
dragged  half  suffocated  through  the  water  until  strong 
jands  on  either  side  rushed  them  through  the  breakers. 


200  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

Miss  Van  Tyne  for  a  moment  or  two  stood  dazed  and 
panting,  then  disengaged  herself  from  the  rather  warm  sup 
port  of  the  devoted  admirer  whom  she  had  tried  to  play 
against  Ackland,  and  tried  to  walk,  but  after  a  few  uncer 
tain  steps  fell  senseless  on  the  sand,  thus  for  the  moment 
drawing  to  herself  the  attention  of  the  increasing  throng. 
Ackland,  glad  to  escape  notice,  was  staggering  off  to  his 
bath-house  when  several  ladies,  more  mindful  of  his  part 
in  the  affair  than  the  men  had  been,  overtook  him  with  a 
fire  of  questions  and  plaudits. 

"Please  leave  me  alone,"  he  said  almost  savagely,  with 
out  looking  around. 

"What  a  bear  he  is!  Any  one  else  would  have  been  a 
little  complacent  over  such  an  exploit, ' '  they  chorused,  as 
they  followed  the  unconscious  girl,  who  was  now  being 
carried  to  the  hotel. 

Ackland  locked  the  door  of  his  little  apartment  and  sank 
panting  on  the  bench.  "Maledictions  on  her!"  he  muttered. 
"At  one  time  there  was  a  better  chance  of  her  being  fatal 
to  me  than  to  Munson  with  his  yellow-fever  tragedy  in  pros 
pect.  Her  recklessness  to-day  was  perfectly  insane.  If  she 
tries  it  again  she  may  drown  for  all  that  I  care,  or  at  least 
ought  to  care." 

His  anger  appeared  to  act  like  a  tonic,  and  he  was  soon 
ready  to  return  to  the  house.  A  dozen  sprang  forward  to 
congratulate  him,  but  they  found  such  impatience  and 
annoyance  at  all  reference  to  the  affair  that  with  many 
surmises  the  topic  was  dropped. 

"You  are  a  queer  fellow,"  remarked  his  privileged 
cousin,  as  he  took  her  out  to  dinner.  "Why  don't  you  let 
people  speak  naturally  about  the  matter,  or  rather,  why 
don't  you  pose  as  the  hero  of  the  occasion?" 

"Because  the  whole  affair  was  most  unnatural,  and  I  am 
deeply  incensed.  In  a  case  of  necessity  I  am  ready  to  risk 
my  life,  although  it  has  unusual  attractions  for  me;  but  I'm 
no  melodramatic  hero  looking  for  adventures.  What  neces 
sity  was  there  in  this  case  ?  It  is  the  old  story  of  Munson 


AN    UNEXPECTED   RESULT  201 

over  again  in  another  guise.  The  act  was  that  of  an  incon 
siderate,  heartless  woman  who  follows  her  impulses  and 
inclinations,  no  matter  what  may  be  the  consequences." 
After  a  moment  he  added  less  indignantly,  "i  must  give 
her  credit  for  one  thing,  angry  as  1  am — she  behaved  well 
in  the  water,  otherwise  she  would  have  drowned  me." 

"She  is  not  a  fool.  Most  women  would  have  drowned 
you." 

"She  is  indeed  not  a  fool;  therefore  she's  the  more  to 
blame.  If  she  is  ever  so  reckless  again,  may  I  be  asleep  in 
my  room.  Of  course  one  can't  stand  by  and  see  a  woman 
drown,  no  matter  who  or  what  she  is." 

"Jack,  what  made  her  so  reckless?"  Mrs.  Alston  asked, 
with  a  sudden  intelligence  lighting  up  her  face. 

"Hang  it  all!  How  should  I  know?  What  made  her 
torture  Munson  ?  She  follows  her  impulses,  and  they  are 
not  always  conducive  to  any  one's  well-being,  not  even  her 
own." 

"Mark  my  words,  she  has  never  shown  this  kind  of  reck 
lessness  before." 

"Oh,  yes,  she  has.  She  was  running  her  horse  to  death 
the  other  hot  morning  and  nearly  trampled  on  a  child;" 
and  he  told  of  an  unexpected  encounter  while  he  was  taking 
a  rather  extended  ramble. 

"Well,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Alston,  smiling  significantly, 
"I  think  I  understand  her  symptoms  better  than  you  do. 
If  you  are  as  cold-blooded  as  you  seem,  I  may  have  to 
interfere. ' ' 

"Oh,  bah!"  he  answered  impatiently.  "Pardon  me,  but 
1  should  despise  myself  forever  should  I  become  senti 
mental,  knowing  what  I  do." 

"Jack,  had  you  no  compunctions  when  fearing  that  such 
a  beautiful  girl  might  perish  ?  We  are  going  to  have  an 
awful  night.  Hear  the  wind  whistle  and  moan,  and  the  sky 
is  already  black  with  clouds.  The  roar  of  the  surface  grows 
louder  every  hour.  Think  of  that  lovely  form  being  out  in 
those  black  angry  waves,  darted  at  and  preyed  upon  by 


202  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

horrible  slimy  monsters.  Ob,  it  fairly  makes  my  flesh 
creep !' ' 

"And  mine  too,"  he  said  with  a  strong  gesture  of  dis 
gust;  "especially  when  I  remember  that  I  should  have  kept 
her  company,  tor  of  course  I  could  not  return  without  her. 
I  confess  that  when  at  first  I  could  not  find  her  I  was  fairly 
sick  at  the  thought  of  her  fate.  But  remember  how  un 
called  for  it  all  was — quite  as  much  so  as  that  poor  Will 
Munson  is  on  his  way  to  die  with  the  yellow  fever,  like 
enough." 

"Jack,"  said  his  cousin,  affectionately,  laying  her  hand 
on  his  arm,  "blessings  on  your  courage  to-day!  If  what 
might  have  happened  so  easily  had  occurred,  I  could  never 
have  looked  upon  the  sea  again  without  a  shudder.  I  should 
have  been  tormented  by  a  horrible  memory  all  my  life.  It 
was  brave  and  noble — " 

"Oh,  hush!"  he  said  angrily.  "I  won't  hear  another 
word  about  it  even  from  you.  I'm  not  brave  and  noble. 
I  went  because  I  was  compelled  to  go;  I  hated  to  go.  I 
hate  the  girl,  and  have  more  reason  now  than  ever.  If  we 
had  both  drowned,  no  doubt  there  would  have  been  less 
trouble  in  the  world.  There  would  have  been  one  lawyer 
the  less,  and  a  coquette  extinguished.  Now  we  shall  both 
prey  on  society  in  our  different  ways  indefinitely. ' ' 

"Jack,  you  are  in  an  awful  mood  to-day." 

"1  am;  never  was  in  a  worse." 

"Having  so  narrowly  escaped  death,  you  ought  to  be 
subdued  and  grateful." 

"On  the  contrary,  I'm  inclined  to  profanity.  Excuse 
me;  don't  wish  any  dessert.  I'll  try  a  walk  and  a  cigar. 
You  will  now  be  glad  to  be  rid  of  me  on  any  terms." 

"Stay,  Jack.  See,  Miss  Van  Tyne  has  so  far  recovered 
as  to  come  down.  She  looked  unutterable  things  at  you  as 
she  entered." 

"Of  course  she  did.  Very  few  of  her  thoughts  concern 
ing  me  or  other  young  men  would  sound  well  if  uttered. 
Tell  your  friends  to  let  this  topic  alone,  or  I  shall  be  rude 


AN    UNEXPECTED    RESULT  203 

to  them,"  and  without  a  glance  toward  the  girl  he  had  res 
cued  he  left  the  dining-room. 

11  Well,  well,"  murmured  Mrs.  Alston,  "I  never  saw  Jack 
in  such  a  mood  before.  It  is  quite  as  unaccountable  as 
Miss  Tyne's  recklessness.  1  wonder  what  is  the  matter 
with  him.'1 

Ackland  was  speedily  driven  back  from  his  walk  by  the 
rain,  which  fact  he  did  not  regret,  for  he  found  himself  ex 
hausted  and  depressed.  Seeking  a  retired  piazza,  in  order 
to  be  alone,  he  sat  down  with  his  hat  drawn  over  his  eyes 
and  smoked  furiously.  Before  very  long,  however,  he  was 
startled  out  of  a  painful  revery  by  a  timid  voice  saying: 

"Mr.  Ackland,  won't  you  permit  me  to  thank  you?" 

He  rose.  Miss  Van  Tyne  stood  before  him  with  out 
stretched  hand.  He  did  not  notice  it,  but  bowing  coldly, 
said: 

"Please  consider  that  you  have  thanked  me  and  let  the 
subject  drop." 

"Do  not  be  so  harsh  with  me,"  she  pleaded.  "I  cannot 
help  it  if  you  are.  Mr.  Ackland,  you  saved  my  life." 

"Possibly." 

"And  possibly  you  think  that  it  is  scarcely  worth 
saving." 

"Possibly  your  own  conscience  suggested  that  thought 
to  you." 

"You  are  heartless,"  she  burst  out  indignantly. 

He  began  to  laugh.  "That's  a  droll  charge  for  you  to 
make,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  steadfastly  for  a  moment,  and  then 
murmured:  "You  are  thinking  of  your  friend,  Mr.  Munson." 

"That  would  be  quite  natural,  flow  many  more  can  you 
think  of?" 

"You  are  indeed  unrelenting,"  she  faltered,  tears  coming 
into  her  eyes;  "but  I  cannot  forget  that  but  for  you  1  should 
now  be  out  there" — and  she  indicated  the  sea  by  a  gesture, 
then  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  shuddered. 

"Bo  not  feel  under  obligations.     I  should  have  been 


204  'TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND     OTHER    STORIES 

compelled  to  do  as  much  for  any  human  being.  You  seem 
to  forget  that  I  stood  an  even  chance  of  being  out  there 
with  you,  and  that  there  was  no  more  need  of  the  risk  than 
there  was  that  my  best  friend's  life  should  be  blight — " 

' '  You — you  out  there  ?' '  she  cried,  springing  toward  him 
and  pointing  to  the  sea. 

4  '  Certainly.  You  cannot  suppose  that  having  once  found 
you,  I  could  come  ashore  without  you.  As  it  was,  my 
strength  was  rapidly  giving  way,  and  were  it  not  for  the 
rope — " 

44 Oh,  forgive  me,"  she  cried  passionately,  seizing  his 
hand  in  spite  of  him.  4'It  never  entered  my  mind  that  you 
could  drown.  I  somehow  felt  that  nothing  could  harm  you. 
I  was  reckless — I  didn't  know  what  I  was  doing — I  don't 
understand  myself  any  more.  Please —please  forgive  me, 
or  I  shall  not  sleep  to-night." 

44 Certainly,"  he  said  lightly,  44if  you  will  not  refer  to 
our  little  episode  again." 

4 'Please  don't  speak  in  that  way,"  she  sighed,  turning 
away. 
«  tll  have  complied  with  your  request." 

4 4I  suppose  I  must  be  content, ' '  she  resumed  sadly.  Then 
turning  her  head  slowly  toward  him  she  added  hesitatingly: 
4  4  Will  you  forgive  me  for — for  treating  your  friend — ' ' 

44 No,"  he  replied,  with  such  stern  emphasis  that  she 
shrank  from  him  and  trembled. 

44 You  are  indeed  heartless,"  she  faltered,  as  she  turned 
to  leave  him. 

4 'Miss  Van  Tyne,"  he  said  indignantly,  44 twice  you  have 
charged  me  with  being  heartless.  Your  voice  and  manner 
indicate  that  I  would  be  unnatural  and  unworthy  of  respect 
were  I  what  you  charge.  In  the  name  of  all  that's  rational 
what  does  this  word  '  heartless'  mean  to  you  ?  W  here  was 
your  heart  when  you  sent  my  friend  away  so  wretched  and 
humbled  that  he  is  virtually  seeking  the  death  from  which 
you  are  so  glad  to  escape  ?' ' 

441  did  not  love  him,"  she  protested  faintly. 


AN   UNEXPECTED    RESULT  205 

He  laughed  bitterly,  and  continued,  "Love!  That's  a 
word  which  I  believe  has  no  meaning  for  you  at  all,  but  it 
had  for  him.  You  are  a  remarkably  clever  woman,  Miss 
Van  Tyne.  You  have  brains  in  abundance.  See,  I  do  you 
justice.  What  is  more,  you  are  beautiful  and  can  be  so 
fascinating  that  a  man  who  believed  in  you  might  easily 
worship  you.  You  made  him  believe  in  you.  You  tried  to 
beguile  me  into  a  condition  that  with  my  nature  would  be 
ruin  indeed.  You  never  had  the  baby  plea  of  a  silly, 
shallow  woman.  I  took  pains  to  find  that  out  the  first 
evening  we  met.  In  your  art  of  beguiling  an  honest,  trust 
ing  man  you  were  as  perfect  as  you  were  remorseless,  and 
you  understood  exactly  what  you  were  doing." 

For  a  time  she  seemed  overwhelmed  by  his  lava-like 
torrent  of  words,  and  stood  with  bowed  head  and  shrinking, 
trembling  form;  but  when  he  ceased  she  turned  to  him  and 
said  bitterly  and  emphatically: 

"I  did  not  understand  what  I  was  doing,  nor  would  my 
brain  have  taught  me  were  I  all  intellect  like  yourself.  I 
half  wish  you  had  left  me  to  drown,"  and  with  a  slight, 
despairing  gesture  she  turned  away  and  did  not  look 
back. 

Ackland's  face  lighted  up  with  a  sudden  flash  of  intelli 
gence  and  deep  feeling.  He  started  to  recall  her,  hesitated, 
and  watched  her  earnestly  until  she  disappeared;  then  look 
ing  out  on  the  scowling  ocean,  he  took  off  his  hat  and 
exclaimed  in  a  deep,  low  tone: 

44 By  all  that's  divine,  can  this  be?  Is  it  possible  that 
through  the  suffering  of  her  own  awakening  heart  she  is 
learning  to  know  the  pain  she  has  given  to  others  ?  Should 
this  be  true,  the  affair  is  taking  an  entirely  new  aspect,  and 
Munson  will  be  avenged  as  neither  of  us  ever  dreamed 
would  be  possible." 

He  resumed  his  old  position  and  thought  long  and  deeply, 
then  rejoined  his  cousin,  who  was  somewhat  surprised  to 
find  that  his  bitter  mood  had  given  place  to  his  former 
composure. 


206  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

"How  is  this,  Jack?"  she  asked.  "As  the  storm  grows 
wilder  without,  you  become  more  serene." 

"Only  trying  to  make  amends  for  my  former  bearish- 
ness,"  he  said  carelessly,  but  with  a  little  rising  color. 

"I  don't  understand  you  at  all,"  she  continued  discon 
tentedly.  "I  saw  you  sulking  in  that  out-of-the-way  cor 
ner,  and  I  saw  Miss  Van  Tyne  approach  you  hesitatingly 
and  timidly,  with  the  purpose,  no  doubt,  of  thanking  you. 
Of  course  I  did  not  stay  to  watch,  but  a  little  later  I  met 
Miss  Van  Tyne,  and  she  looked  white  and  rigid.  She  has 
not  left  her  room  since." 

"You  take  a  great  interest  in  Miss  Van  Tyne.  It  is  well 
you  are  not  in  my  place." 

"I  half  wish  I  was  and  had  your  chances.  You  are  more 
pitiless  than  the  waves  from  which  you  saved  her. ' ' 

"I  can't  help  being  just  what  I  am,"  he  said  coldly. 
"Good-night."  And  he  too  disappeared  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening. 

The  rain  continued  to  fall  in  blinding  torrents,  and  the 
building  fairly  trembled  under  the  violence  of  the  wind. 
The  guests  drew  together  in  the  lighted  rooms,  and  sought 
by  varied  amusements  to  pass  the  time  until  the  fierceness 
of  the  storm  abated,  few  caring  to  retire  while  the  uproar  of 
the  elements  was  so  great. 

At  last  as  the  storm  passed  away,  and  the  late-rising 
moon  threw  a  sickly  gleam  on  the  tumultuous  waters,  Eva 
looked  from  her  window  with  sleepless  eyes,  thinking  sadly 
and  bitterly  of  the  past  and  future.  Suddenly  a  dark  figure 
appeared  on  the  beach  in  the  track  of  the  moonlight.  She 
snatched  an  opera-glass,  but  could  not  recognize  the  soli 
tary  form.  The  thought  would  come,  however,  that  it  was 
Ackland;  and  if  it  were,  what  were  his  thoughts  and  what 
place  had  she  in  them  ?  Why  was  he  watching  so  near  the 
spot  that  might  have  been  their  burial-place  ? 

"At  least  he  shall  not  think  that  I  can  stolidly  sleep 
after  what  has  occurred,"  she  thought,  and  she  turned  up 
her  light,  opened  her  window,  and  sat  down  by  it  again. 


AN    UNEXPECTED    RESULT  207 

Whoever  the  unseasonable  rambler  might  be,  he  appeared 
to  recognize  the  gleam  from  her  window,  for  he  walked 
hastily  down  the  beach  and  disappeared.  After  a  time  she 
darkened  her  room  again  and  waited  in  vain  for  his  return. 
"If  it  were  he,  he  shuns  even  the  slightest  recognition,"  she 
thought  despairingly ;  and  the  early  dawn  was  not  far  dis 
tant  when  she  fell  into  an  unquiet  sleep. 

For  the  next  few  days  Miss  Van  Tyne  was  a  puzzle  to  all 
except  Mrs.  Alston.  She  was  quite  unlike  the  girl  she  had 
formerly  been,  and  she  made  no  effort  to  disguise  the  fact. 
In  the  place  of  her  old  exuberance  of  life  and  spirits,  there 
was  lassitude  and  great  depression.  The  rich  color  ebbed 
steadily  from  her  face,  and  dark  lines  under  her  eyes  beto 
kened  sleepless  nights.  She  saw  the  many  curious  glances 
in  her  direction,  but  apparently  did  not  care  what  was 
thought  or  surmised.  Were  it  not  that  her  manner  to 
Ackland  was  so  misleading,  the  tendency  to  couple  their 
names  together  would  have  been  far  more  general.  She 
neither  sought  nor  shunned  his  society;  in  fact,  she  treated 
him  as  she  did  the  other  gentlemen  of  her  acquaintance. 
She  took  him  at  his  word.  He  had  said  he  would  forgive 
her  on  condition  that  she  would  riot  speak  of  what  he  was 
pleased  to  term  that  "little  episode,"  and  she  never  re 
ferred  to  it. 

Her  aunt  was  as  much  at  fault  as  the  others,  and  one 
day  querulously  complained  to  Mrs.  Alston  that  she  was 
growing  anxious  about  Eva.  "At  first  I  thought  she  was 
disappointed  over  the  indifference  of  that  icy  cousin  of 
yours;  but  she  does  not  appear  to  care  a  straw  for  him. 
W  hen  I  mention  his  name  she  speaks  of  him  in  a  natural, 
grateful  way,  then  her  thoughts  appear  to  wander  off  to 
some  matter  that  is  troubling  her.  I  can't  find  out  whether 
she  is  ill  or  whether  she  has  heard  some  bad  news  of  which 
she  will  not  speak.  She  never  gave  me  or  any  one  that 
I  know  of  much  of  her  confidence." 

Mrs.  Alston  listened  but  made  no  comments.  She  was 
sure  she  was  right  in  regard  to  Miss  Van  Tyne's  trouble, 


208  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

but  her  cousin  mystified  her.  Ackland  bad  become  per 
fectly  inscrutable.  As  far  as  she  could  judge  by  any  word 
or  act  of  his  he  had  simply  lost  his  interest  in  Miss  Van 
Tyne,  and  that  was  all  that  could  be  said;  and  yet  a  fine 
instinct  tormented  Mrs.  Alston  with  the  doubt  that  this 
was  not  true,  and  that  the  young  girl  was  the  subject  of  a 
sedulously  concealed  scrutiny.  Was  he  watching  for  his 
friend  or  for  his  own  sake,  or  was  he,  in  a  spirit  of  retalia 
tion,  enjoying  the  suffering  of  one  who  had  made  others 
suffer  ?  His  reserve  was  so  great  that  she  could  not  pierce 
it,  and  his  caution  baffled  even  her  vigilance.  But  she 
waited  patiently,  assured  that  the  little  drama  must  soon 
pass  into  a  more  significant  phase. 

And  she  was  right.  Miss  Van  Tyne  could  not  maintain 
the  line  of  action  she  had  resolved  upon.  She  had  thought, 
"I  won't  try  to  appear  happy  when  I  am  not.  I  won't 
adopt  the  conventional  mask  of  gayety  when  the  heart  is 
wounded.  How  often  I  have  seen  through  it  and  smiled 
at  the  transparent  farce — farce  it  seemed  then,  but  I  now 
fear  it  was  often  tragedy.  At  any  rate  there  was  neither 
dignity  nor  deception  in  it.  I  have  done  with  being  false, 
and  so  shall  simply  act  myself  and  be  a  true  woman. 
Though  my  heart  break  a  thousand  times,  not  even  by  a 
glance  shall  I  show  that  it  is  breaking  for  him.  If  he  or 
others  surmise  the  truth,  they  may;  let  them.  It  is  a  Kirt 
of  my  penance;  and  I  will  show  the  higher,  stronger  ]wiie 
of  one  who  makes  no  vain,  useless  pretence  to  happy  indif 
ference,  but  who  can  maintain  a  self-control  so  perfect  that 
even  Mrs.  Alston  shall  not  see  one  unmaidenly  advance  or 
overture. ' ' 

She  succeeded  for  a  time,  as  we  have  seen,  but  she  over 
rated  her  will  and  underrated  her  heart,  that  with  deepening 
intensity  craved  the  love  denied  her.  With  increasing  fre 
quency  she  said  to  herself,  "I  must  go  away.  My  only 
course  is  to  hide  rny  weakness  and  never  see  him  again. 
He  is  inflexible,  yet  his  very  obduracy  increases  my  love 
a  hundred- fold." 


AN    UNEXPECTED   RESULT  209 

At  last  after  a  lonely  walk  on  the  beach  she  concluded, 
"My  guardian  must  take  me  home  on  Monday  next.  He 
comes  to-night  to  spend  Sunday  with  us,  and  I  will  make 
preparations  to  go  at  once. ' ' 

Although  her  resolution  did  not  fail  her,  she  walked  for 
ward  more  and  more  slowly,  her  dejection  and  weariness  be 
coming  almost  overpowering.  As  she  was  turning  a  sharp 
angle  of  rocks  that  jutted  well  down  to  the  water  she  came 
face  to  face  with  Ackland  and  Mrs.  Alston.  She  was  off 
her  guard;  and  her  thoughts  of  him  had  been  so  absorbing 
that  she  felt  he  must  be  conscious  of  them.  She  flushed 
painfully  and  hurried  by  with  slight  recognition  and  down 
cast  face,  but  she  had  scarcely  passed  them  when,  acting 
under  a  sudden  impulse,  she  stopped  and  said  in  a  low  tone: 

"Mr.  Ackland—" 

fle  turned  expectantly  toward  her.  For  a  moment  she 
found  it  difficult  to  speak,  then  ignoring  the  presence  of 
Mrs.  Alston,  resolutely  began: 

"Mr.  Ackland,  I  must  refer  once  more  to  a  topic  which 
you  have  in  a  sense  forbidden.  I  feel  partially  absolved, 
however,  for  I  do  not  think  you  have  forgiven  me  anything. 
At  any  rate  I  must  ask  your  pardon  once  more  for  having 
so  needlessly  and  foolishly  imperilled  your  life.  I  say  these 
words  now  because  I  may  not  have  another  opportunity; 
we  leave  on  Monday."  With  this  she  raised  her  eyes  to 
his  with  an  appeal  for  a  little  kindness  which  Mrs.  Alston 
was  confident  could  not  be  resisted.  Indeed,  she  was  sure 
that  she  saw  a  slight  nervous  tremor  in  Ackland's  hands,  as 
if  he  found  it  hard  to  control  himself.  Then  he  appeared 
to  grow  rigid.  Lifting  his  hat,  he  said  gravely  and  unre- 
sponsively : 

"Miss  Van  Tyne,  you  now  surely  have  made  ample 
amends.  Please  forget  the  whole  affair." 

She  turned  from  him  at  once,  but  not  so  quickly  but 
that  both  he  and  his  cousin  saw  the  bitter  tears  that  would 
come.  A  moment  later  she  was  hidden  by  the  angle  of  the 
rock.  As  long  as  she  was  visible  Ackland  watched  her 


210  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND   OTHER    STORIES 

without  moving,  then  he  slowly  turned  to  his  cousin,  his 
face  as  inscrutable  as  ever.  She  walked  at  his  side  for  a 
few  moments  in  ill-concealed  impatience,  then  stopped  and 
said  decisively: 

"I'll  go  no  further  with  you  to-day.  I  am  losing  all 
respect  for  you." 

Without  speaking,  he  turned  to  accompany  her  back  to 
the  house.  His  reticence  and  coldness  appeared  to  annoy 
her  beyond  endurance,  for  she  soon  stopped  and  sat  down 
on  a  ledge  of  the  rocks  that  jutted  down  the  beach  where 
they  had  met  Miss  Van  Tyne. 

"John,  you  are  the  most  unnatural  man  I  ever  saw  in 
my  life,"  she  began  angrily. 

"What  reason  have  you  for  so  flattering  an  opinion,"  he 
asked  coolly. 

"You  have  been  giving  reason  for  it  every  day  since  you 
came  here,"  she  resumed  hotly.  "I  always  heard  it  said 
that  you  had  no  heart;  but  I  defended  you  and  declared 
that  your  course  toward  your  mother  even  when  a  boy 
showed  that  you  had,  and  that  you  would  prove  it  some 
day.  But  I  now  believe  that  you  are  unnaturally  cold, 
heartless,  and  unfeeling.  I  had  no  objection  to  your  wound 
ing  Miss  Van  Tyne's  vanity  and  encouraged  you  when  that 
alone  bid  fair  to  suffer.  But  when  she  proved  she  had  a 
heart  and  that  you  had  awakened  it,  she  deserved  at  least 
kindness  and  consideration  on  your  part.  If  you  could  not 
return  her  affection,  you  should  have  gone  away  at  once; 
but  I  believe  that  you  have  stayed  for  the  sole  and  cruel 
purpose  of  gloating  over  her  suffering." 

"She  has  not  suffered  more  than  my  friend,  or  than 
I  would  if — " 

"You  indeed!  The  idea  of  your  suffering  from  any  such 
cause!  I  half  believe  you  came  here  with  the  deliberate 
purpose  of  avenging  your  friend,  and  that  you  are  keeping 
for  his  inspection  a  diary  in  which  the  poor  girl's  humilia 
tion  to-day  will  form  the  hateful  climax." 

They  did  not  dream  that  the  one  most  interested  was 


AN    UNEXPECTED    RESULT  211 

near.  Miss  Van  Tyne  had  felt  too  faint  and  sorely 
wounded  to  go  further  without  rest.  Believing  that  the 
rocks  would  hide  her  from  those  whose  eyes  she  would 
most  wish  to  shun,  she  had  thrown  herself  down  beyond 
the  angle  and  was  shedding  the  bitterest  tears  that  she  had 
ever  known.  Suddenly  she  heard  Mrs.  Alston's  words  but 
a  short  distance  away,  and  was  so  overcome  by  their  import 
that  she  hesitated  what  to  do.  She  would  not  meet  them 
again  for  the  world,  but  felt  so  weak  that  she  doubted 
whether  she  could  drag  herself  away  without  being  discov 
ered,  especially  as  the  beach  trended  off  to  the  left  so 
sharply  a  little  further  on  that  they  might  discover  her. 
While  she  was  looking  vainly  for  some  way  of  escape  she 
heard  Ackland's  words  and  Mrs.  Alston's  surmise  in  reply 
that  he  had  come  with  the  purpose  of  revenge.  She  was  so 
stung  by  their  apparent  truth  that  she  resolved  to  clamber 
up  through  an  opening  of  the  rocks  if  the  thing  were  pos 
sible.  Panting  and  exhausted  she  gained  the  summit,  and 
then  hastened  to  an  adjacent  grove,  as  some  wounded, 
timid  creature  would  run  to  the  nearest  cover.  Ackland 
had  heard  sounds  and  had  stepped  around  the  point  of  the 
rocks  just  in  time  to  see  her  disappearing  above  the  bank. 
Returning  to  Mrs.  Alston,  he  said  impatiently: 

"In  view  of  your  opinions  my  society  can  have  no  attrac 
tions  for  you.  Shall  I  accompany  you  to  the  hotel  ?" 

"No,"  was  the  angry  reply.  "I'm  in  no  mood  to  speak 
to  you  again  to-day. " 

He  merely  bowed  and  turned  as  if  to  pursue  his  walk. 
The  moment  she  was  hidden,  however,  he  also  climbed  the 
rocks  in  time  to  see  Miss  Van  Tyne  entering  the  grove. 
With  swift  and  silent  tread  he  followed  her,  but  could  not 
at  once  discover  her  hiding-place.  At  last  passionate  sobs 
made  it  evident  that  she  was  concealed  behind  a  great  oak 
a  little  on  his  left.  Approaching  cautiously,  he  heard  her 
moan: 

"Oh,  this  is  worse  than  death!  He  makes  me  feel  as  if 
even  God  had  no  mercy  for  me.  But  I  will  expiate  my 


212  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

wrong ;  I  will,  at  the  bitterest  sacrifice  which  a  woman  can 
make." 

She  sprang  up  to  meet  Ackland  standing  with  folded 
arms  before  her.  She  started  violently  and  leaned  against 
the  tree  for  support.  But  the  weakness  was  momentary, 
for  she  wiped  the  tears  from  her  eyes,  and  then  turned  to 
him  so  quietly  that  only  her  extreme  pallor  proved  that  she 
realized  the  import  of  her  words. 

"Mr.  Ackland,"  she  asked,  "have  you  Mr.  Munson's 
address?" 

It  was  his  turn  now  to  start,  but  he  merely  answered: 
"Yes." 

"Do — do  you  think  he  still  cares  for  me?" 

"Undoubtedly." 

"Since  then  you  are  so  near  a  friend,  will  you  write  to 
him  that  I  will  try" — she  turned  away  and  would  not  look 
at  him  as,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  she  concluded  her 
sentence — "I  will  try  to  make  him  as  happy  as  I  can." 

"Do  you  regret  your  course?"  he  asked  with  a  slight 
tremor  in  his  voice. 

"I  regret  that  I  misled — that  I  wronged  him  beyond  all 
words.  1  am  willing  to  make  all  the  amends  in  my  power." 

"Do  you  love  him?" 

She  now  turned  wholly  away  and  shook  her  head. 

"And  yet  you  would  marry  him  ?" 

"Yes,  if  he  wished  it,  knowing  all  the  truth." 

"Can  you  believe  he  would  wish  it?"  he  asked  indig 
nantly.  ' '  Can  you  believe  that  any  man — ' ' 

"Then  avenge  him  to  your  cruel  soul's  content,"  she 
exclaimed  passionately.  "Tell  him  that  I  have  no  heart  to 
give  to^  him  or  to  any  one.  Through  no  effort  or  fault  of 
mine  I  overheard  Mrs.  Alston's  words  and  yours.  I  know 
your  design  against  me.  Assuage  your  friend's  grief  by 
assuring  him  of  your  entire  success,  of  which  you  are  al 
ready  so  well  aware.  Tell  him  how  you  triumphed  over 
an  untaught,  thoughtless  girl  who  was  impelled  merely  by 
the  love  of  power  and  excitement,  as  you  are  governed 


AN    UNEXPECTED    RESULT  213 

by  ambition  and  a  remorseless  will.  I  did  not  know — I  did 
not  understand  how  cruel  I  was,  although  now  that  I  do 
know  I  shall  never  forgive  myself.  But  if  you  had  the 
heart  of  a  man  you  might  have  seen  that  you  were  subject 
ing  me  to  torture.  I  did  not  ask  or  expect  that  you  should 
care  for  me;  but  I  had  a  right  to  hope  for  a  little  kindness, 
a  little  manly  and  delicate  consideration,  a  little  healing 
sympathy  for  the  almost  mortal  wound  that  you  have  made. 
But  I  now  see  that  you  have  stood  by  and  watched  like  a 
grand  inquisitor.  Tell  your  friend  that  you  have  trans 
formed  the  thoughtless  girl  into  a  suffering  woman.  I  can 
not  go  to  Brazil.  I  'Cannot  face  dangers  that  might  bring 
rest.  I  must  keep  my  place  in  society — keep  it  too  under 
a  hundred  observant  and  curious  eyes.  You  have  seen  it 
all  of  late  in  this  house;  I  was  too  wretched  to  care.  It  was 
a  part  of  my  punishment,  and  I  accepted  it.  I  would  not 
be  false  again  even  in  trying  to  conceal  a  secret  which  it  is 
like  death  to  a  woman  to  reveal.  I  only  craved  one  word 
of  kindness  from  you.  Had  I  received  it,  I  would  have 
gone  away  in  silence  and  suffered  in  silence.  But  your 
course  and  what  I  have  heard  have  made  me  reckless  and 
despairing.  You  do  not  leave  me  even  the  poor  consolation 
of  self -sacrifice.  You  are  my  stony-hearted  fate.  I  wish 
you  had  left  me  to  drown.  Tell  your  friend  that  I  am 
more  wretched  than  he  ever  can  be,  because  I  am  a  woman. 
Will  he  be  satisfied?" 

"He  ought  to  be,"  was  the  low,  husky  reply. 

"Are  you  proud  of  your  triumph  ?" 

"No,  1  am  heartily  ashamed  of  it;  but  I  have  kept  a 
pledge  that  will  probably  cost  me  far  more  than  it  has  you. ' ' 

"A  pledge?" 

"Yes,  my  pledge  to  make  you  suffer  as  far  as  possible 
as  he  suffered. ' ' 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  side  as  if  she  had  received  a 
wound,  and  after  a  moment  said  wearily  and  coldly: 

"Well,  tell  him  that  you  succeeded,  and  be  content;" 
and  she  turned  to  leave  him. 


214  TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND    OTHER   STORIES 

"Stay,"  he  cried  impetuously.  "It  is  now  your  turn. 
Take  your  revenge." 

"My  revenge?"  she  repeated  in  unfeigned  astonishment. 

"Yes,  your  revenge.  I  have  loved  you  from  the  mo 
ment  I  hoped  you  had  a  woman's  heart,  yes,  and  before — 
when  I  feared  I  might  not  be  able  to  save  your  life.  I 
know  it  now,  though  the  very  thought  of  it  enraged  me 
then,  i  have  watched  and  waited  more  to  be  sure  that  you 
had  a  woman's  heart  than  for  aught  else,  though  a  false 
sense  of  honor  kept  me  true  to  my  pledge.  After  I  met  you 
on  the  beach  I  determined  at  once  to  break  my  odious  bond 
and  place  myself  at  your  mercy.  You  may  refuse  me  in 
view  of  my  course — you  probably  will;  but  every  one  in  that 
house  there  shall  know  that  you  refused  me,  and  your  tri 
umph  shall  be  more  complete  than  mine." 

She  looked  into  his  face  with  an  expression  of  amaze 
ment  and  doubt;  but  instead  of  .coldness,  there  was  now  a 
devotion  and  pleading  that  she  had  never  seen  before. 

She  was  too  confused  and  astounded,  however,  to  com 
prehend  his  words  immediately,  nor  could  the  impression 
of  his  hostility  pass  away  readily. 

"You  are  mocking  me,"  she  faltered,  scarcely  knowing 
what  she  said. 

"I  cannot  blame  you  that  you  think  me  capable  of  mock 
ing  the  noble  candor  which  has  cost  you  so  dear,  as  I  can 
now  understand.  I  cannot  ask  you  to  believe  that  I  appre 
ciate  your  heroic  impulse  of  self-sacrifice — your  purpose  to 
atone  for  wrong  by  inflicting  irreparable  wrong  on  yourself. 
It  is  natural  that  you  should,  think  of  me  only  as  an  instru 
ment  of  revenge  with  no  more  feeling  than  some  keen-edged 
weapon  would  have.  This  also  is  the  inevitable  penalty  of 
my  course.  When  I  speak  of  my  love  I  cannot  complain 
if  you  smile  in  bitter  incredulity.  But  I  have  at  least 
proved  that  I  have  a  resolute  will  and  that  I  keep  my 
word;  and  I  again  assure  you  that  it  shall  be  known  this 
very  night  that  you  have  refused  me,  that  I  offered  you  my 
hand,  that  you  already  had  my  heart,  where  your  image  is 


AN    UNEXPECTED    RESULT  215 

enshrined  with  that  of  my  mother,  and  that  I  entreated  you 
to  be  my  wife.  My  cousin  alone  guessed  my  miserable 
triumph;  all  shall  know  of  yours." 

As  he  spoke  with  impassioned  earnestness,  the  confusion 
passed  from  her  mind.  She  felt  the  truth  of  his  words;  she 
knew  that  her  ambitious  dream  had  been  fulfilled,  and  that 
she  had  achieved  the  conquest  of  a  man  upon  whom  all  others 
had  smiled  in  vain.  But  how  immeasurably  different  were 
her  emotions  from  those  which  she  had  once  anticipated! 
Not  her  beauty,  not  her  consummate  skill  in  fascination 
had  wrought  this  miracle,  but  her  woman's  heart,  awakened 
at  last;  and  it  thrilled  with  such  unspeakable  joy  that  she 
turned  away  to  hide  its  reflex  in  her  face.  He  was  misled 
by  the  act  into  believing  that  she  could  not  forgive  him, 
and  yet  was  perplexed  when  she  murmured  with  a  return 
of  her  old  piquant  humor: 

"You  are  mistaken,  Mr.  Ackland;  it  shall  never  be 
known  that  I  refused  you." 

"How  can  you  prevent  it?" 

"If  your  words  are  sincere,  you  will  submit  to  such  terms 
as  I  choose  to  make. ' ' 

"I  am  sincere,  and  my  actions  shall  prove  it;  but  I  shall 
permit  no  mistaken  self-sacrifice  on  your  part,  nor  any 
attempt  to  shield  me  from  the  punishment  I  well  deserve." 

She  suddenly  turned  upon  him  a  radiant  face  in  which 
he  read  his  happiness,  and  faltered: 

"Jack,  I  do  believe  you,  although  the  change  seems 
wrought  by  some  heavenly  magic.  But  it  will  take  a  long 
time  to  pay  you  up.  1  hope  to  be  your  dear  torment  for 
a  lifetime. ' ' 

He  caught  her  in  such  a  strong,  impetuous  embrace  that 
she  gasped: 

"I  thought  you  were — cold  to  our  sex." 

"It's  not  your  sex  that  I  am  clasping,  but  you — you, 
my  Eve.  Like  the  first  man,  I  have  won  my  bride  under 
the  green  trees  and  beneath  the  open  sky." 

"Yes,  Jack;  and  I  give  you  my  whole  heart  as  truly  as 


216  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

did  the  first  woman  when  there  was  but  one  man  in  all  the 
world.     That  is  my  revenge. " 

This  is  what  Will  Munson  wrote  some  weeks  later: 

"Well,  Jack,  I've  had  the  yellow  fever,  and  it  was  the  most  fortunate 
event  of  my  life.  I  was  staying  with  a  charming  family,  and  they  would  not 
permit  my  removal  to  a  hospital.  One  of  my  bravest  and  most  devoted  nurses 
has  consented  to  become  my  wife.  I  hope  you  punished  that  little  wretch  Eva 
Van  Tyne  as  she  deserved." 

"Confound  yoiir  fickle  soul!"  muttered  Ackland.  "I 
punished  her  as  she  did  not  deserve;  and  I  risked  more 
than  life  in  doing  so.  If  her  heart  had  not  been  as  good  as 
gold  and  as  kind  as  Heaven  she  never  would  have  looked 
at  me  again. ' ' 

Ackland  is  quite  as  indifferent  to  the  sex  as  ever,- but 
Eva  has  never  complained  that  he  was  cold  to 


A   CHRISTMAS-EVE   SUIT  217 


A    CHRISTMAS-EVE    SUIT 


THE  Christmas  holidays  had  come,  and  with  them  a 
welcome  vacation  for  Hedley  Marstern.  Although 
as  yet  a  briefless  young  lawyer,  he  had  a  case  in 
hand  which  absorbed  many  of  his  thoughts — the  conflicting 
claims  of  two  young  women  in  his  native  village  on  the 
Hudson.  It  must  not  be  imagined  that  the  young  women 
were  pressing  their  claims  except  as  they  did  so  uncon 
sciously,  by  virtue  of  their  sex  and  various  charms.  Never 
theless,  Marstern  was  not  the  first  lawyer  who  had  clients 
over  whom  midnight  oil  was  burned,  they  remaining  un 
aware  of  the  fact. 

If^not  yet  a  constitutional  attorney,  he  was  at  least  con 
stitutionally  one.  Falling  helplessly  in  love  with  one  girl 
simplifies  matters.  There  are  no  distracting  pros  and  cons 
— nothing  required  but  a  concentration  of  faculties  to  win 
the  enslaver,  and  so  achieve  mastery.  Marstern  did  not 
appear  amenable  to  the  subtle  influences  which  blind  the 
eyes  and  dethrone  reason,  inspiring  in  its  place  an  over 
whelming  impulse  to  capture  a  fortuitous  girl  because  (to 
a  heated  imagination)  she  surpasses  all  her  sex.  Indeed,  he 
was  level-headed  enough  to  believe  that  he  would  never 
capture  any  such  girl;  but  he  hoped  to  secure  one  who 
promised  to  make  as  good  a  wife  as  he  would  try  to  be 
a  husband,  and  with  a  fair  amount  of  self-esteem,  he  was 
conscious  of  imperfections.  Therefore,  instead  of  fancying 
that  any  of  his  fair  acquaintances  were  angels,  he  had  de 
liberately  and,  as  some  may  think,  in  a  very  cold-blooded 
fashion,  endeavored  to  discover  what  they  actually  were. 

10— ROE— XI  (217) 


218  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

He  had  observed  that  a  good  deal  of  prose  followed  the 
poetry  of  wooing  and  the  lunacy  of  the  honeymoon;  and  he 
thought  it  might  be  well  to  criticise  a  little  before  marriage 
as  well  as  after  it. 

There  were  a  number  of  charming  girls  in  the  social 
circle  of  his  native  town;  and  he  had,  during  later  years, 
made  himself  quite  impartially  agreeable  to  them.  Indeed, 
without  much  effort  on  his  part  he  had  become  what  is 
known  as  a  general  favorite.  He  had  been  too  diligent  a 
student  to  become  a  society  man,  but  was  ready  enough  in 
vacation  periods  to  make  the  most  of  every  country  frolic, 
and  even  on  great  occasions  to  rush  up  from  the  city  and 
return  at  some  unearthly  hour  in  the  morning  when  his 
partners  in  the  dance  were  not  half  through  their  dreams. 
While  on  these  occasions  he  had  shared  in  the  prevailing 
hilarity,  he  nevertheless  had  the  presentiment  that  some 
one  of  the  laughing,  light-footed  girls  would  one  day  pour 
his  coffee  and  send  him  to  his  office  in  either  a  good  or 
a  bad  mood  to  grapple  with  the  problems  awaiting  him 
there.  He  had  in  a  measure  decided  that  when  he  married 
it  should  be  to  a  girl  whom  he  had  played  with  in  child 
hood  and  whom  he  knew  a  good  deal  about,  and  ntft  to  a 
chance  acquaintance  of  the  world  at  large.  So,  beneath  all 
his  diversified  gallantries  he  had  maintained  a  quiet  little 
policy  of  observation,  until  his  thoughts  had  gradually 
gathered  around  two  of  his  young  associates  who,  uncon 
sciously  to  themselves,  as  we  have  said,  put  in  stronger 
and  stronger  claims  every  time  he  saw  them.  They  asserted 
these  claims  in  the  only  way  in  which  he  would  have  recog 
nized  them — by  being  more  charming,  agreeable,  and,  as 
he  fancied,  by  being  better  than  the  others.  He  had  not 
made  them  aware,  even  by  manner,  of  the  distinction  ac 
corded  to  them;  and  as  yet  he  was  merely  a  friend. 

But  the  time  had  come,  he  believed,  for  definite  action. 
While  he  weighed  and  considered,  some  prompter  fellows 
might  take  the  case  out  of  his  hands  entirely ;  therefore  he 
welcomed  this  vacation  and  the  opportunities  it  afforded. 


A   CHRISTMAS-EVE  SUIT  219 

The  festivities  began  with  what  is  termed  in  the  country 
a  "large  party";  and  Carrie  Mitchell  and  Lottie  Waldo 
were  both  there,  resplendent  in  new  gowns  made  for  the 
occasion.  Marstern  thought  them  both  charming.  They 
danced  equally  well  and  talked  nonsense  with  much  the 
same  ease  and  vivacity.  He  could  not  decide  which  was 
the  prettier,  nor  did  the  eyes  and  attentions  of  others  afford 
him  any  aid.  They  were  general  favorites,  as  well  as  him 
self,  although  it  was  evident  that  to  some  they  might  be 
come  more,  should  they  give  encouragement.  But  they 
were  apparently  in  the  heyday  of  their  girlhood,  and  thus 
far  had  preferred  miscellaneous  admiration  to  individual 
devotion.  By  the  time  the  evening  was  over  Marstern  felt 
that  if  life  consisted  of  large  parties  he  might  as  well  settle 
the  question  by  the  toss  of  a  copper. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  he  was  such  a  conceited 
prig  as  to  imagine  that  such  a  fortuitous  proceeding,  or  his 
best  efforts  afterward,  could  settle  the  question  as  it  related 
to  the  girls.  It  would  only  decide  his  own  procedure.  He 
was  like  an  old  marauding  baron,  in  honest  doubt  from 
which  town  he  can  carry  off  the  richest  booty — that  is,  in 
case  he  can  capture  any  one  of  them.  His  overtures  for 
capitulation  might  be  met  with  the  "slings  and  arrows  of 
outrageous  fortune"  and  he  be  sent  limping  off  the  field. 
Nevertheless,  no  man  regrets  that  he  must  take  the  initia 
tive,  and  he  would  be  less  than  a  man  who  would  fear  to 
do  so.  When  it  came  to  this  point  in  the  affair,  Marstern 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  thought,  "I  must  take  my 
chances  like  the  rest."  But  he  wished  to  be  sure  that 
he  had  attained  this  point,  and  not  lay  siege  to  one  girl 
only  to  wish  afterward  it  had  been  the  other. 

His  course  that  evening  proved  that  he  not  only  had  a 
legal  cast  of  mind  but  also  a  judicial  one.  He  invited  both 
Miss  Mitchell  and  Miss  Waldo  to  take  a  sleigh-ride  with 
him  the  following  evening,  fancying  that  when  sandwiched 
between  them  in  the  cutter  he  could  impartially  note  his 
impressions.  His  unsuspecting  clients  laughingly  accepted, 


220  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

utterly  unaware  of  the  momentous  character  of  the  trial 
scene  before  them. 

As  Marstern  smoked  a  cigar  before  retiring  that  night, 
he  admitted  to  himself  that  it  was  rather  a  remarkable  court 
that  was  about  to  be  held.  He  was  the  only  advocate  for 
the  claims  of  each,  and  finally  he  proposed  to  take  a  seat 
on  the  bench  and  judge  between  them.  Indeed,  before  he 
slept  he  decided  to  take  that  august  position  at  once,  and 
maintain  a  judicial  impartiality  while  noting  his  impres 
sions. 

Christmas  Eve  happened  to  be  a  cold,  clear,  star- lit  night; 
and  when  Marstern  drove  to  Miss  Waldo's  door,  he  asked 
himself,  "Could  a  fellow  ask  for  anything  daintier  and  finer" 
than  the  red-lipped,  dark-eyed  girl  revealed  by  the  hall- 
lamp  as  she  tripped  lightly  out,  her  anxious  mamma  fol 
lowing  her  with  words  of  unheeded  caution  about  not  taking 
cold,  and  coming  home  early.  He  had  not  traversed  the 
mile  which  intervened  between  the  residences  of  the  two 
girls  before  he  almost  wished  he  could  continue  the  drive 
under  the  present  auspices,  and  that,  as  in  the  old  times,  he 
could  take  toll  at  every  bridge,  and  encircle  his  companion 
with  his  arm  as  they  bounced  over  the  "  thank- 'ee  mams." 
The  frosty  air  appeared  to  give  keenness  and  piquancy  to 
Miss  Lottie's  wit,  and  the  chime  of  the  bells  was  not  merrier 
or  more  musical  than  her  voice.  But  when  a  little  later  he 
saw  blue-eyed  Carrie  Mitchell  in  her  furs  and  hood  silhou 
etted  in  the  window,  his  old  dilemma  became  as  perplexing 
as  ever.  Nevertheless,  it  was  the  most  delightful  uncer 
tainty  that  he  had  ever  experienced;  and  he  had  a  presenti 
ment  that  he  had  better  make  the  most  of  it,  since  it  could 
not  last  much  longer.  Meanwhile,  he  was  hedged  about 
with  blessings  clearly  not  in  disguise,  and  he  gave  utterance 
to  this  truth  as  they  drove  away. 

"Surely  there  never  was  so  lucky  a  fellow.  Here  I  am 
kept  warm  and  happy  by  the  two  finest  girls  in  town." 

"Yes,"  said  Lottie;  "and  it's  a  shame  you  can't  sit  on 
both  sides  of  us. ' ' 


A   CHRISTMAS-EVE   SUIT  221 

"I  assure  you  I  wish  it  were  possible.  It  would  double 
my  pleasure." 

"I'm  very  well  content,"  remarked  Carrie,  quietly,  "as 
long  as  I  can  keep  on  the  right  side  of  people — " 

"Well,  you  are  not  on  the  right  side  to-night,"  inter 
rupted  Lottie. 

"Good  gracious!"  thought  Marstern,  "she's  next  to  my 
heart.  I  wonder  if  that  will  give  her  unfair  advantage;" 
but  Carrie  explained: 

"Of  course  I  was  speaking  metaphorically." 

"In  that  aspect  of  the  case  it  would  be  a  shame  to  me  if 
any  side  I  have  is  not  right  toward  those  who  have  so  hon 
ored  me,"  he  hastened  to  say. 

"Oh,  Carrie  has  all  the  advantage — she  is  next  to  your 
heart. ' ' 

"Would  you  like  to  exchange  places?"  was  the  query 
flashed  back  by  Carrie. 

"Oh,  no,  I'm  quite  as  content  as  you  are." 

"Why,  then,  since  I  am  more  than  content — exultant, 
indeed — it  appears  that  we  all  start  from  excellent  premises 
to  reach  a  happy  conclusion  of  our  Christmas  Eve,"  cried 
Marstern. 

"Now  you  are  talking  shop,  Mr.  Lawyer — Premises  and 
Conclusions,  indeed!"  said  Lottie;  "since  you  are  such  a 
happy  sandwich,  you  must  be  a  tongue  sandwich,  and  be 
very  entertaining." 

He  did  his  best,  the  two  girls  seconding  his  efforts  so 
genially  that  he  found  himself,  after  driving  five  miles, 
psychologically  just  where  he  was  physically — between 
them,  as  near  to  one  in  his  thoughts  and  preferences 
as  to  the  other. 

"Let  us  take  the  river  road  home,"   suggested  Lottie. 

"As  lodg  as  you  agree,"  he  answered,  "you  both  are 
sovereign  potentates.  If  you  should  express  conflicting 
wishes,  I  should  have  to  stop  here  in  the  road  till  one 
abdicated  in  favor  of  the  other,  or  we  all  froze." 

"But  you,    sitting   so   snugly   between   us,   would  not 


222  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

freeze,"  said  Lottie.  "If  we  were  obstinate  we  should 
have  to  assume  our  pleasantest  expressions,  and  then  you 
could  eventually  take  us  home  as  bits  of  sculpture.  In  fact, 
I'm  getting  cold  already." 

"Are  you  also,  Miss  Carrie?" 

"Oh,  I'll  thaw  out  before  summer.     Don't  mind  me." 

"Well,  then,  mind  me,"  resumed  Lottie.  "See  how 
white  and  smooth  the  river  looks.  Why  can't  we  drive 
home  on  the  ice  ?  It  will  save  miles — I  mean  it  looks  so 
inviting. ' ' 

"Oh,  dear!"  cried  Carrie,  "I  feel  like  protesting  now. 
The  longest  way  round  may  be  both  the  shortest  and  safest 
way  home." 

"You  ladies  shall  decide.  This  morning  I  drove  over 
the  route  we  would  take  to-night,  and  I  should  not  fear  to 
take  a  ton  of  coal  over  it." 

"A  comparison  suggesting  warmth  and  a  grate-fire. 
I  vote  for  the  river,"  said  Lottie,  promptly. 

"Oh,  well,  Mr.  Marstern,  if  you've  been  over  the  ice  so 
recently — I  only  wish  to  feel  reasonably  safe." 

"I  declare!"  thought  Marstern,  "Lottie  is  the  braver  and 
more  brilliant  girl;  and  the  fact  that  she  is  not  inclined  to 
forego  the  comfort  of  the  home-fire  for  the  pleasure  of  my 
company,  reveals  the  difficulty  of,  and  therefore  incentive  to, 
the  suit  I  may  decide  to  enter  upon  before  New  Year's." 

Meanwhile,  his  heart  on  Carrie's  side  began  to  grow 
warm  and  alert,  as  if  recognizing  an  affinity  to  some  object 
not  far  on*.  Granting  that  she  had  not  been  so  brilliant  as 
Lottie,  she  had  been  eminently  companionable  in  a  more 
quiet  way.  If  there  had  not  been  such  bursts  of  enthusiasm 
at  the  beginning  of  the  drive,  her  enjoyment  appeared  to 
have  more  staying  powers.  He  liked  her  none  the  less  that 
her  eyes  were  often  turned  toward  the  stars  or  the  dark  sil 
houettes  of  the  leafless  trees  against  the  snow.  She  did  not 
keep  saying,  "Ah,  how  lovely!  What  a  fine  bit  that  is!" 
but  he  had  only  to  follow  her  eyes  to  see  something  worth 
looking  at 


A   CHRISTMAS-EVE  SUIT  223 

"A  proof  that  Miss  Carrie  also  is  not  so  preoccupied 
with  the  pleasure  of  my  company  that  she  has  no  thoughts 
for  other  things,"  cogitated  Marstern.  "It's  rather  in  her 
favor  that  she  prefers  Nature  to  a  grate  fire.  They're  about 
even  yet." 

Meanwhile  the  horse  was  speeding  along  on  the  white, 
hard  expanse  of  the  river,  skirting  the  west  shore.  They 
now  had  only  about  a  mile  to  drive  before  striking  land 
again;  and  the  scene  was  so  beautiful  with  the  great  dim 
outlines  of  the  mountains  before  them  that  both  the  girls 
suggested  that  they  should  go  leisurely  for  a  time. 

"We  shouldn't  hastily  and  carelessly  pass  such  a  picture 
as  that,  any  more  than  one  would  if  a  fine  copy  of  it  were 
hung  in  a  gallery,"  said  Carrie.  "The  stars  are  so  brilliant 
along  the  brow  of  that  highland  yonder  that  they  form  a 
dia — oh,  oh!  what  is  the  matter?"  and  she  clung  to  Mar- 
stern's  arm. 

The  horse  was  breaking  through  the  ice. 

"Whoa!"  said  Marstern,  firmly.  Even  as  he  spoke, 
Lottie  was  out  of  the  sleigh  and  running  back  on  the  ice, 
crying  and  wringing  her  hands. 

"We  shall  be  drowned,"  she  almost  screamed  hysteri 
cally. 

"Mr.  Marstern,  what  shall  we  do  ?  Can't  we  turn  around 
and  go  back  the  way  we  came?" 

"Miss  Carrie,  will  you  do  what  I  ask  ?  Will  you  believe 
me  when  I  say  that  I  do  not  think  you  are  in  any  danger?" 

"Yes,  I'll  do  my  best,"  she  replied,  catching  her  breath. 
She  grew  calm  rapidly  as  he  tried  to  reassure  Lottie,  telling 
her  that  water  from  the  rising  of  the  tide  had  overflowed 
the  main  ice  and  that  thin  ice  had  formed  over  it,  also  that 
the  river  at  the  most  was  only  two  or  three  feet  deep  at  that 
point.  But  all  was  of  no  avail;  Lottie  stood  out  upon  the 
ice  in  a  panic,  declaring  that  he  never  should  have  brought 
them  into  such  danger,  and  that  he  must  turn  around  at  once 
and  go  back  as  they  came. 

"But,  Miss  Waldo,  the  tide  is  rising,  and  we  may  find 


224  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

wet  places  returning.  Besides,  it  would  bring  us  home  very 
late.  Now,  Miss  Carrie  and  I  will  drive  slowly  across  this 
place  and  then  return  for  you.  After  we  have  been  across 
it  twice  you  surely  won't  fear." 

"I  won't  be  left  alone;  suppose  you  two  should  break 
through  and  disappear,  what  would  become  of  me  T ' 

"You  would  be  better  off  than  we,"  he  replied,  laughing. 

"I  think  it's  horrid  of  you  to  laugh.  Oh,  I'm  so  cold 
and  frightened !  I  feel  as  if  the  ice  were  giving  way  under 
my  feet." 

"Why,  Miss  Lottie,  we  just  drove  over  that  spot  where 
you  stand.  Here,  Miss  Carrie  shall  stay  with  you  while 
I  drive  back  and  forth  alone." 

"Then  if  you  were  drowned  we'd  both  be  left  alone  to 
freeze  to  death." 

"I  pledge  you  my  word  you  shall  be  by  that  grate- fire 
within  less  than  an  hour  if  you  will  trust  me  five  minutes." 

"Oh,  well,  if  you  will  risk  your  life  and  ours  too;  but 
Carrie  must  stay  with  me." 

"Will  you  trust  me,  Miss  Carrie,  and  help  me  out  of  this 
scrape?" 

Carrie  was  recovering  from  her  panic,  and  replied,  "I 
have  given  you  my  promise." 

He  was  out  of  the  sleigh  instantly,  and  the  thin  ice  broke 
with  him  also.  "I  must  carry  you  a  short  distance,"  he 
said.  "I  cannot  allow  you  to  get  your  feet  wet.  Put  one 
arm  around  my  neck,  so;  now  please  obey  as  you  promised. " 

She  did  so  without  a  word,  and  he  bore  her  beyond  the 
water,  inwardly  exulting  and  blessing  that  thin  ice.  His 
decision  was  coming  with  the  passing  seconds;  indeed,  it 
had  come.  Eeturning  to  the  sleigh  he  drove  slowly  for 
ward,  his  horse  making  a  terrible  crunching  and  splashing, 
Lottie  meanwhile  keeping  up  a  staccato  accompaniment  of 
little  shrieks. 

"Ah,  my  charming  creature,"  he  thought,  "with  you  it 
was  only,  'What  will  become  of  meT  I  might  not  have 
found  out  until  it  was  too  late  the  relative  importance  of 


A   CHRISTMAS-EVE   SUIT  225 

'me'  in  the  universe  had  we  not  struck  this  bad  crossing; 
and  one  conies  to  plenty  of  bad  places  to  cross  in  a  life 
time." 

The  area  of  thin  ice  was  not  very  narrow,  and  he  was 
becoming  but  a  dim  and  shadowy  outline  to  the  girls.  Lot 
tie  was  now  screaming  for  his  return.  Having  crossed  the 
overflowed  space  and  absolutely  assured  himself  that  there 
was  no  danger,  he  returned  more  rapidly  and  found  Carrie 
trying  to  calm  her  companion. 

"Oh,"  sobbed  Lottie,  "my  feet  are  wet  and  almost  frozen. 
The  ice  underneath  may  have  borne  you,  but  it  won't  bear 
all  three  of  us.  Oh,  dear,  I  wish  I  hadn't — I  wish  I  was 
home;  and  I  feel  as  if  I'd  never  get  there." 

"Miss  Lottie,  I  assure  you  that  the  ice  will  hold  a  ton, 
but  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I  shall  put  you  in  the  sleigh, 
and  Miss  Carrie  will  drive  you  over.  You  two  together  do 
not  weigh  much  more  than  I  do.  I'll  walk  just  behind  you 
with  my  hands  on  the  back  of  the  sleigh,  and  if  I  see  the 
slightest  danger  I'll  lift  you  out  of  the  sleigh  first  and  carry 
you  to  safety. ' ' 

This  proposition  promised  so  well  that  she  hesitated,  and 
he  lifted  her  in  instantly  before  she  could  change  her  mind, 
then  helped  Carrie  in  with  a  quiet  pressure  of  the  hand,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "I  shall  depend  on  you." 

"But,  Mr.  Marstern,  you'll  get  your  feet  wet,"  protested 
Carrie. 

"That  doesn't  matter,"  he  replied  good-naturedly.  "I 
shall  be  no  worse  off  than  Miss  Lottie,  and  I'm  determined  to 
convince  her  of  safety.  Now  go  straight  ahead  as  I  direct." 

Once  the  horse  stumbled,  and  Lottie  thought  he  was 
going  down  head  first.  "Oh,  lift  me  out,  quick,  quick!" 
she  cried. 

"Yes,  indeed  I  will,  Miss  Lottie,  as  soon  as  we  are  oppo 
site  that  grate  fire  of  yours. ' ' 

They  were  soon  safely  over,  and  within  a  half-hour 
reached  Lottie's  home.  It  was  evident  she  was  a  little 
ashamed  of  her  behavior,  and  she  made  some  effort  to  re- 


226  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

trieve  herself.  But  she  was  cold  and  miserable,  vexed  with 
herself  and  still  more  vexed  with  Marstern.  That  a  latent 
sense  of  justice  forbade  the  latter  feeling  only  irritated  her 
the  more.  Individuals  as  well  as  communities  must  have 
scapegoats;  and  it  is  not  an  unusual  impulse  on  the  part  of 
some  to  blame  and  dislike  those  before  whom  they  have  hu 
miliated  themselves. 

She  gave  her  companions  a  rather  formal  invitation  to 
come  in  and  get  warm  before  proceeding  further;  but  Mar- 
stern  said  very  politely  that  he  thought  it  was  too  late,  un 
less  Miss  Carrie  was  cold.  Carrie  protested  that  she  was 
not  so  cold  but  that  she  could  easily  wait  till  she  reached 
her  own  fireside. 

"Well,  good-night,  then,"  and  the  door  was  shut  a  trifle 
emphatically. 

"Mr.  Marstern,"  said  Carrie,  sympathetically,  "your  feet 
must  be  very  cold  and  wet  after  splashing  through  all  that 
ice- water." 

"They  are,"  he  replied;  "but  I  don't  mind  it.  Well,  if 
1  had  tried  for  years  I  could  not  have  found  such  a  test  of 
character  as  we  had  to-night." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Oh,  well,  you  two  girls  did  not  behave  exactly  alike. 
I  liked  the  way  you  behaved.  You  helped  me  out  of  a 
confounded  scrape." 

"Would  you  have  tried  for  years  to  find  a  test?"  she 
asked,  concealing  the  keenness  of  her  query  under  a  laugh. 

"I  should  have  been  well  rewarded  if  I  had,  by  such  a 
fine  contrast, ' '  he  replied. 

Carrie's  faculties  had  not  so  congealed  but  that  his  words 
set  her  thinking.  She  had  entertained  at  times  the  impres 
sion  that  she  and  Lottie  were  his  favorites.  Had  he  taken 
them  out  that  night  together  in  the  hope  of  contrasts,  of 
finding  tests  that  would  help  his  halting  decision  ?  He  had 
ventured  where  the  intuitions  of  a  girl  like  Carrie  Mitchell 
were  almost  equal  to  second-sight;  and  she  was  alert  for 
what  would  come  next. 


A   CHRISTMAS-EVE   SUIT  227 

He  accepted  her  invitation  to  come  in  and  warm  his  feet 
at  the  glowing  fire  in  the  grate,  which  Carrie's  father  had 
made  before  retiring.  Mrs.  Mitchell,  feeling  that  her 
daughter  was  with  an  old  friend  and  playmate,  did  not 
think  the  presence  of  a  chaperon  essential,  and  left  the 
young  people  alone.  Carrie  bustled  about,  brought  cake, 
and  made  hot  lemonade,  while  Marstern  stretched  his  feet 
to  the  grate  with  a  luxurious  sense  of  comfort  and  compla 
cency,  thinking  how  homelike  it  all  was  and  how  paradisiacal 
life  would  become  if  such  a  charming  little  Hebe  presided 
over  his  home.  His  lemonade  became  nectar  offered  by 
such  hands. 

She  saw  the  different  expression  in  his  eyes.  It  was 
now  homage,  decided  preference  for  one  and  not  mere  gal 
lantry  to  two.  Outwardly  she  was  demurely  oblivious  and 
maintained  simply  her  wonted  friendliness.  Marstern,  how 
ever,  was  thawing  in  more  senses  than  one,  and  he  was  pos 
sessed  by  a  strong  impulse  to  begin  an  open  siege  at 
once. 

"I  haven't  had  a  single  suit  of  any  kind  yet,  Carrie,"  he 
said,  dropping  the  prefix  of  "Miss,"  which  had  gradually 
been  adopted  as  they  had  grown  up. 

"Oh,  well,  that  was  the  position  of  all  the  great  lawyers 
once,"  she  replied,  laughing.  Marstern 's  father  was  wealthy, 
and  all  knew  that  he  could  afford  to  be  briefless  for  a  time. 

"I  may  never  be  great;  but  I  shall  work  as  hard  as  any 
of  them,"  he  continued.  "To  tell  you  the  honest  truth, 
however,  this  would  be  the  happiest  Christmas  Eve  of  my 
life  if  I  had  a  downright  suit  on  my  hands.  Why  can't  I 
be  frank  with  you  and  say  I'd  like  to  begin  the  chief  suit 
of  my  life  now  and  here — a  suit  for  this  little  hand  ?  I'd 
plead  for  it  as  no  lawyer  ever  pleaded  before.  I  settled 
that  much  down  on  the  ice." 

"And  if  I  hadn't  happened  to  behave  on  the  ice  in  a 
manner  agreeable  to  your  lordship,  you  would  have  pleaded 
with  the  other  girl?"  she  remarked,  withdrawing  her  hand 
and  looking  him  directly  in  the  eyes. 


228  TAKEN    ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

"What  makes  you  think  so?"  he  asked  somewhat  con 
fusedly. 

"You  do." 

He  sprang  up  and  paced  the  room  a  few  moments, 
then  confronted  her  with  the  words,  "You  shall  have  the 
whole  truth.  Any  woman  that  I  would  ask  to  be  my  wife 
is  entitled  to  that,"  and  he  told  her  just  what  the  attitude 
of  his  mind  had  been  from  the  first. 

She  laughed  outright,  then  gave  him  her  hand  as  she 
said,  "Your  honesty  insures  that  we  can  be  very  good 
friends;  but  I  don't  wish  to  hear  anything  more  about  suits 
which  are  close  of  kin  to  lawsuits." 

He  looked  very  dejected,  feeling  that  he  had  blundered 
fatally  in  his  precipitation. 

"Come  now,  Hedley,  be  sensible,"  she  resumed,  half 
laughing,  half  serious.  "As  you  say,  we  can  be  frank  with 
each  other.  Why,  only  the  other  day  we  were  boy  and  girl 
together  coasting  downhill  on  the  same  sled.  You  are  ap 
plying  your  legal  jargon  to  a  deep  experience,  to  something 
sacred — the  result,  to  my  mind,  of  a  divine  instinct.  Neither 
you  nor  I  have  ever  felt  for  each  other  this  instinctive  pref 
erence,  this  subtle  gravitation  of  the  heart.  Don't  you  see  ? 
Your  head  has  been  concerned  about  me,  and  only  your 
head.  By  a  kindred  process  you  would  select  one  bale  of 
merchandise  in  preference  to  another.  Good  gracious!  I've 
faults  enough.  You'll  meet  some  other  girl  that  will  stand 
some  other  test  far  better  than  I.  I  want  a  little  of  what 
you  call  silly  romance  in  my  courtship.  See;  I  can  talk 
about  this  suit  as  coolly  and  fluently  as  you  can.  We'd 
make  a  nice  pair  of  lovers,  about  as  frigid  as  the  ice- water 
you  waded  through  so  good-naturedly;"  and  the  girl's 
laugh  rang  out  merrily,  awakening  echoes  in  the  old 
house.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mitchell  might  rest  securely  when 
their  daughter  could  laugh  like  that.  It  was  the  mirth  of 
a  genuine  American  girl  whose  self-protection  was  better 
than  the  care  of  a  thousand  duennas. 

He  looked  at  her  with  honest  admiration  in  his  eyes, 


A   CHRISTMAS-EVE   SV1T  229 

then  rose  quietly  and  said,  "That's  fine,  Carrie.  Your 
head's  worth  two  of  mine,  and  you'd  make  the  better 
lawyer.  You  see  through  a  case  from  top  to  bottom. 
You  were  right— I  wasn't  in  love  with  you;  I  don't  know 
whether  I'm  in  love  with  you  now,  and  you  haven't  an  in 
finitesimal  spark  for  me.  Nevertheless,  I  begin  my  suit 
here  and  now,  and  I  shall  never  withdraw  it  till  you  are 
engaged  to  another  fellow.  So  there!" 

Carrie  looked  rather  blank  at  this  result  of  her  reductio 
ad  absurdum  process;  and  he  did  not  help  her  by  adding, 
"A  fellow  isn't  always  in  love.  There  must  be  a  begin 
ning;  and  when  I  arrive  at  this  beginning  under  the  guid 
ance  of  reason,  judgment,  and  observation,  I  don't  see  as 
I'm  any  more  absurd  than  the  fellow  who  tumbles  help 
lessly  in  love,  he  doesn't  know  why.  What  becomes  of 
all  these  people  who  have  divine  gravitations?  You  and 
I  both  know  of  some  who  had  satanic  repulsions  afterward. 
They  used  their  eyes  and  critical  faculties  after  marriage  in 
stead  of  before.  The  romance  exhaled  like  a  morning  mist; 
and  the  facts  came  out  distinctly.  They  learned  what  kind 
of  man  and  woman  they  actually  were,  and  two  idealized 
creatures  were  sent  to  limbo.  Because  I  don't  blunder  upon 
the  woman  I  wish  to  marry,  but  pick  her  out,  that's  no  rea 
son  I  can't  and  won't  love  her.  Your  analysis  and  judgment 
were  correct  only  up  to  date.  You  have  now  to  meet  a  suit 
honestly,  openly  announced.  This  may  be  bad  policy  on 
my  part;  yet  I  have  so  much  faith  in  you  and  respect  for 
you  that  I  don't  believe  you  will  let  my  precipitation 
create  a  prejudice.  Give  me  a  fair  hearing;  that's  all  I 
ask." 

"Well,  well,  I'll  promise  not  to  frown,  even  though  some 
finer  paragon  should  throw  me  completely  in  the  shade." 

"You  don't  believe  in  my  yet,"  he  resumed,  after  a  mo 
ment  of  thought.  "I  felt  that  I  had  blundered  awfully  a 
while  ago;  but  I  doubt  it.  A  girl  of  your  perceptions 
would  soon  have  seen  it  all.  I've  not  lost  anything  by 
being  frank  from  the  start.  Be  just  to  me,  however.  It 


230  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND   OTHER   STORIES 

wasn't  policy  that  led  me  to  speak,  but  this  homelike  scene, 
and  you  appearing  like  the  good  genius  of  a  home. ' ' 

He  pulled  out  his  watch,  and  gave  a  low  whistle  as  he 
held  it  toward  her.  Then  his  manner  suddenly  became 
grave  and  gentle.  "Carrie,"  he  said,  "I  wish  you,  not  a 
merry  Christmas,  but  a  happy  one,  and  many  of  them.  It 
seems  to  me  it  would  be  a  great  privilege  for  a  man  to  make 
a  woman  like  you  happy." 

"Is  this  the  beginning  of  the  suit?"  she  asked  with  a 
laugh  that  was  a  little  forced. 

"I  don't  know.  Perhaps  it  is;  but  I  spoke  just  as  I 
felt.  Good-night." 

She  would  not  admit  of  a  trace  of  sentiment  on  her  part. 
"Good-night,''  she  said.  "Merry  Christmas!  Go  home  and 
hang  up  your  stocking. ' ' 

"Bless  me!"  she  thought,  as  she  went  slowly  up  the 
stairs,"!  thought  I  was  going  to  be  through  with  him  for 
good  and  all,  except  as  a  friend;  but  if  he  goes  on  this 
way—" 

The  next  morning  a  basket  of  superb  roses  was  left  at 
her  home.  There  was  no  card,  and  mamma  queried  and 
surmised;  but  the  girl  knew.  They  were  not  displeasing  to 
her,  and  somehow,  before  the  day  was  over,  they  found  their 
way  to  her  room;  but  she  shook  her  head  decidedly  as  she 
said,  "He  must  be  careful  not  to  send  me  other  gifts,  for  I 
will  return  them  instantly.  Flowers,  in  moderation,  never 
commit  a  girl. ' ' 

But  then  came  another  gift — a  book  with  pencillings  here 
and  there,  not  against  sentimental  passages,  but  words  that 
made  her  think.  It  was  his  manner  in  society,  however, 
that  at  once  annoyed,  perplexed,  and  pleased  her.  On  the 
first  occasion  they  met  in  company  with  others,  he  made  it 
clear  to  every  one  that  he  was  her  suitor;  yet  he  was  not  a 
burr  which  she  could  not  shake  off.  He  rather  seconded 
ttll  her  efforts  to  have  a  good  time  with  any  and  every  one 
she  chose.  Nor  did  he,  wallflower  fashion,  mope  in  the 
meanwhile  and  look  unutterable  things.  He  added  to  the 


A   CHRISTMAS-EVE   SUIT  231 

pleasure  of  a  score  of  others,  and  even  conciliated  Lottie, 
yet  at  the  same  time  surrounded  the  girl  of  his  choice  with 
an  atmosphere  of  unobtrusive  devotion.  She  was  congratu 
lated  on  her  conquest — rather  maliciously  so  by  Lottie.  Her 
air  of  courteous  indifference  was  well  maintained;  yet  she 
was  a  woman,  and  could  not  help  being  flattered.  Certain 
generous  traits  in  her  nature  were  touched  also  by  a  homage 
which  yielded  everything  and  exacted  nothing. 

The  holidays  soon  passed,  and  he  returned  to  his  work. 
She  learned  incidentally  that  he  toiled  faithfully,  instead  of 
mooning  around.  At  every  coigne  of  vantage  she  found 
him,  or  some  token  of  his  ceaseless  effort.  She  was  com 
pelled  to  think  of  him,  and  to  think  well  of  him.  Though 
mamma  and  papa  judiciously  said  little,  it  was  evident  that 
they  liked  the  style  of  lover  into  which  he  was  developing. 

Once  during  the  summer  she  said:  "I  don't  think  it's 
right  to  let  you  go  on  in  this  way  any  longer.'* 

"Are  my  attentions  so  very  annoying?" 

"No,  indeed.  A  girl  never  had  a  more  agreeable  or 
useful  friend." 

"Are  you  engaged  to  some  other  fellow  ?" 

"Of  course  not.     You  know  better." 

"There  is  no  'of  course  not'  about  it.  I  couldn't  and 
wouldn't  lay  a  straw  in  the  way.  Yon  are  not  bound, 
but  I." 

"Yon  bound?" 

"Certainly.     You  remember  what  I  said." 

"Then  I  must  accept  the  first  man  that  asks  me — " 

"I  ask  you." 

"No;  some  one  else,  so  as  to  unloose  your  conscience 
and  give  you  a  happy  deliverance." 

"You  would  leave  me  still  bound  and  hopeless  in  that 
case.  I  love  you  now,  Carrie  Mitchell." 

"Oh,  dear!  you  are  incorrigible.  It's  just  a  lawyer's 
persistence  in  winning  a  suit." 

"You  can  still  swear  on  the  dictionary  that  you  don't 
love  me  at  all  ?" 


232  TAKEN   ALIVE.    AND    OTHER   STOR1E8 

"I  might — on  the  dictionary.  There,  I  won't  talk  about 
such  things  any  more,"  and  she  resolutely  changed  the 
subject. 

But  she  couldn't  swear,  even  on  the  dictionary.  She 
didn't  know  where  she  stood  or  how  it  would  all  end;  but 
with  increasing  frequency  the  words,  "I  love  you  now," 
haunted  her  waking  and  dreaming  hours. 

The  holidays  were  near  again,  and  then  came  a  letter 
from  Marstern,  asking  her  to  take  another  sleigh-ride  with 
him  on  Christmas  Eve.  His  concluding  words  were:  "There 
is  no  other  woman  in  the  world  that  I  want  on  the  other 
side  of  me."  She  kissed  these  words,  then  looked  around 
in  a  startled,  shamefaced  manner,  blushing  even  in  the  soli 
tude  of  her  room. 

Christmas  Eve  came,  but  with  it  a  wild  storm  of  wind 
and  sleet.  She  was  surprised  at  the  depth  of  her  disappoint 
ment  Would  he  even  come  to  call  through  such  a  tempest  ? 

He  did  come,  and  come  early;  and  she  said  demurely: 
"1  did  not  expect  you  on  such  a  night  as  this. " 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  half  humorously,  half 
seriously,  and  her  eyes  drooped  before  his.  "You  will 
know  better  what  to  expect  next  time,"  was  his  comment. 

"When  is  next  time?" 

"Any  and  every  time  which  gives  me  a  chance  to  see 
you.  Who  should  know  that  better  than  you  ?" 

"Are  you  never  going  to  give  up?"  she  asked  with 
averted  face. 

"Not  till  you  become  engaged." 

"Hush!    They  are  all  in  the  parlor." 

"Well,  they  ought  to  know  as  much,  by  this  time, 
also." 

She  thought  it  was  astonishing  how  he  made  himself  at 
home  in  the  family  circle.  In  half  an  hour  there  was 
-  scarcely  any  restraint  left  because  a  visitor  was  present. 
Y"et,  as  if  impelled  by  some  mysterious  influence,  one  after 
another  slipped  out;  and  Carrie  saw  with  strange  little 
thrills  of  dismay  that  she  would  soon  be  alone  with  that 


A   CHRISTMAS-EVE  SUIT  233 

indomitable  lawyer.  She  signalled  to  her  mother,  but  the 
old  lady's  eyes  were  glued  to  her  knitting. 

At  last  they  were  alone,  and  she  expected  a  prompt  and 
powerful  appeal  from  the  plaintiff;  but  Marstern  drew  his 
chair  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  hearth  and  chatted  so 
easily,  naturally,  and  kindly  that  her  trepidation  passed 
utterly.  It  began  to  grow  late,  and  a  heavier  gust  than 
usual  shook  the  house.  It  appeared  to  waken  him  to  the 
dire  necessity  of  breasting  the  gale,  and  he  rose  and  said: 

"I  feel  as  if  I  could  sit  here  forever,  Carrie.  It's  just 
the  impression  I  had  a  year  ago  to-night.  You,  sitting 
there  by  the  tire,  gave  then,  and  give  now  to  this  place  the 
irresistible  charm  of  home.  I  think  I  had  then  the  decided 
beginning  of  the  divine  gravitation — wasn't  that  what  you 
called  it? — which  has  been  growing  so  strong  ever  since. 
You  thought  then  that  the  ice-water  I  waded  was  in  my 
veins.  Do  you  think  so  now  ?  If  you  do  I  shall  have  to 
take  another  year  to  prove  the  contrary.  Neither  am  I  con 
vinced  of  the  absurdity  of  my  course,  as  you  put  it  then. 
I  studied  you  coolly  and  deliberately  before  I  began  to  love 
you,  and  reason  and  judgment  have  had  no  chance  to  jeer 
at  my  love. ' ' 

"But,  Hedley,"  she  began  with  a  slight  tremor  in  her 
tones,  "you  are  idealizing  me  as  certainly  as  the  blindest. 
I've  plenty  of  faults." 

"I  haven't  denied  that;  so  have  I  plenty  of  faults. 
What  right  have  I  to  demand  a  perfection  I  can't  offer? 
I  have  known  people  to  marry  who  imagined  each  other 
perfect,  and  then  come  to  court  for  a  separation  on  the 
ground  of  incompatibility  of  temperament.  They  learned 
the  meaning  of  that  long  word  too  late,  and  were  scarcely 
longer  about  it  than  the  word  itself.  Now,  I'm  satisfied  that 
I  could  cordially  agree  with  you  on  some  points  and  lov 
ingly  disagree  with  you  on  others.  Chief  of  all  it's  your 
instinct  to  make  a  home.  You  appear  better  at  your  own 
fireside  than  when  in  full  dress  at  a  reception.  You — " 

"See  here,  Hedley,  you've  got  to  give  up  this  suit  at 


234  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

last.  I'm  engaged,"  and  she  looked  away  as  if  she  could 
not  meet  his  eyes. 

"Engaged  ?"  he  said  slowly,  looking  at  her  with  startled 
eyes. 

"Well,  about  the  same  as  engaged.  My  heart  has  cer 
tainly  gone  from  me  beyond  recall. ' ' 

He  drew  a  long  breath.  "I  was  foolish  enough  to  begin 
to  hope,"  he  faltered. 

"You  must  dismiss  hope  to-night,  then,"  she  said,  her 
face  still  averted. 

He  was  silent  and  she  slowly  turned  toward  him.  He 
had  sunk  into  a  chair  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  the 
picture  of  dejected  defeat. 

There  was  a  sudden  flash  of  mirth  through  tear-gemmed 
eyes,  a  glance  at  the  clock,  then  noiseless  steps,  and  she  was 
on  her  knees  beside  him,  her  arm  about  his  neck,  her  blush 
ing  face  near  his  wondering  eyes  as  she  breathed: 

"Happy  Christmas,  Hedley !  How  do  you  like  your  first 
gift;  and  what  room  is  there  now  for  hope?" 


THREE    THANKSGIVING    KISSES 


IT  was  the  day  before  Thanksgiving.  The  brief  cloudy 
November  afternoon  was  fast  merging  into  early  twi 
light.  The  trees,  now  gaunt  and  bare,  creaked  and 
groaned  in  the  passing  gale,  clashing  their  icy  branches 
together  with  sounds  sadly  unlike  the  slumberous  rustle 
of  their  foliage  in  June.  And  that  same  foliage  was  now 
flying  before  the  wind,  swept  hither  and  thither,  like  exiles 
driven  by  disaster  from  the  moorings  of  home,  at  times  find 
ing  a  brief  abiding-place,  and  then  carried  forward  to  parts 
unknown  by  circumstances  beyond  control.  The  street 
leading  into  the  village  was  almost  deserted;  and  the  few 
who  came  and  went  hastened  on  with  fluttering  garments, 
head  bent  down,  and  a  shivering  sense  of  discomfort.  The 
fields  were  bare  and  brown;  and  the  landscape  on  the  up 
lands  rising  in  the  distance  would  have  been  utterly  sombre 
had  not  green  fields  of  grain,  like  childlike  faith  in  wintry 
age,  relieved  the  gloomy  outlook  and  prophesied  of  the 
sunshine  and  golden  harvest  of  a  new  year  and  life. 

But  bleak  November  found  no  admittance  in  Mrs.  Al- 
ford's  cosey  parlor.  Though,  as  usual,  it  was  kept  as  the 
room  for  state  occasions,  it  was  not  a  stately  room.  It  was 
furnished  with  elegance  and  good  taste;  but  what  was  better, 
the  genial  home  atmosphere  from  the  rest  of  the  house  had 
invaded  it,  and  one  did  not  feel,  on  entering  it  from  the 
free-and-easy  sitting-room,  as  if  passing  from  a  sunny 
climate  to  the  icebergs  of  the  Pole.  Therefore  I  am  sure 
my  reader  will  follow  me  gladly  out  of  the  biting,  boister 
ous  wind  into  the  homelike  apartment,  and  as  we  stand  in 

(235) 


236  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

fancy  before  the  glowing  grate,  we  will  make  the  acquaint 
ance  of  the  May- day  creature  who  is  its  sole  occupant. 

Elsie  Alford,  just  turning  seventeen,  appeared  younger 
than  her  years  warranted.  Some  girls  carry  the  child  far 
into  their  teens,  and  blend  the  mirthful  innocence  of  in 
fancy  with  the  richer,  fuller  life  of  budding  womanhood. 
This  was  true  of  Elsie.  Hers  was  not  the  forced  exotic 
bloom  of  fashionable  life;  but  rather  one  of  the  native 
blossoms  of  her  New  England  home,  having  all  the  delicacy 
and  at  the  same  time  hardiness  of  the  windflower.  She  was 
also  as  shy  and  easily  agitated,  and  yet,  like  the  flower  she 
resembled,  well  rooted  among  the  rocks  of  principle  and 
truth.  She  was  the  youngest  and  the  pet  of  the  household, 
and  yet  the  "petting"  was  not  of  that  kind  that  develops 
selfishness  and  wilfulness,  but  rather  a  genial  sunlight  of 
love  falling  upon  her  as  a  focus  from  the  entire  family. 
They  always  spoke  of  her  as  "little  Sis,"  or  the  "child." 
And  a  child  it  seemed  she  would  ever  be,  with  her  kittenish 
ways,  quick  impulses,  and  swiftly  alternating  moods.  As 
she  developed  into  womanly  proportions,  her  grave,  busi 
nesslike  father  began  to  have  misgivings.  After  one  of 
her  wild  sallies  at  the  table,  where  she  kept  every  one  on 
the  qui  vive  by  her  unrestrained  chatter,  Mr.  Alford  said: 

"Elsie,  will  you  ever  learn  to  be  a  woman  ?" 

Looking  mischievously  at  him  through  her  curls,  she 
replied,  "Yes;  I  might  if  I  became  as  old  as  Mrs. 
Methuselah." 

They  finally  concluded  to  leave  Elsie's  cure  to  care  and 
trouble — two  certain  elements  of  earthly  life;  and  yet  her 
experience  of  either  would  be  slight  indeed,  could  their 
love  shield  her. 

But  it  would  not  be  exactly  care  or  trouble  that  would 
sober  Elsie  into  a  thoughtful  woman,  as  our  story  will  show. 

Some  of  the  November  wind  seemed  in  her  curling  hair 
upon  this  fateful  day ;  but  her  fresh  young  April  face  was 
a  pleasant  contrast  to  the  scene  presented  from  the  window, 
to  which  she  kept  flitting  with  increasing  frequency.  It 


THREE   THANKSGIVING   KISSES  237 

certainly  was  not  the  dismal  and  darkening  landscape  that 
so  intensely  interested  her.  The  light  of  a  great  and  com 
ing  pleasure  was  in  her  face,  and  her  manner  was  one  of 
restless,  eager  expectancy.  Little  wonder.  Her  pet  brother, 
the  one  next  older  than  herself,  a  promising  young  theo- 
logue,  was  coming  home  to  spend  Thanksgiving.  It  was 
time  he  appeared.  The  shriek  of  the  locomotive  had  an 
nounced  the  arrival  of  the  train;  and  her  ardent  little  spirit 
could  scarcely  endure  the  moments  intervening  before  she 
would  almost  concentrate  herself  into  a  rapturous  kiss  and 
embrace  of  welcome,  for  the  favorite  brother  had  been  ab 
sent  several  long  months. 

Her  mother  called  her  away  for  a  few  moments,  for  the 
good  old  lady  was  busy  indeed,  knowing  well  that  merely 
full  hearts  would  not  answer  for  a  New  England  Thanks 
giving.  But  the  moment  Elsie  was  free  she  darted  back  to 
the  window,  just  in  time  to  catch  a  glimpse,  as  she  sup 
posed,  of  her  brother's  well-remernbered  dark-gray  over 
coat,  as  he  was  ascending  the  front  steps. 

A  tall,  grave-looking  young  man,  an  utter  stranger  to 
the  place  and  family,  had  his  hand  upon  the  doorbell;  but 
before  he  could  ring  it,  the  door  flew  open,  and  a  lovely 
young  creature  precipitated  herself  on  bis  neck,  like  a  mis 
sile  fired  from  heavenly  battlements,  and  a  kiss  was  pressed 
upon  his  lips  that  he  afterward  admitted  to  have  felt  even 
to  the  "toes  of  his  boots." 

But  his  startled  manner  caused  her  to  lift  her  face  from 
under  his  side- whiskers;  and  though  the  dusk  was  deepen 
ing,  she  could  see  that  her  arms  were  around  an  utter 
stranger.  She  recoiled  from  him  with  a  bound,  and  trem 
bling  like  a  windflower  indeed,  her  large  blue  eyes  dilating 
at  the  intruder  with  a  dismay  beyond  words.  How  the 
awkward  scene  would  have  ended  it  were  hard  to  tell  had 
not  the  hearty  voice  of  one  coming  up  the  path  called  out: 

"Hi,  there,  you  witch!  who  is  that  you  are  kissing,  and 
then  standing  oS  to  see  the  effect?" 

There  was  no  mistake  this  time;  so,  impelled  by  love, 


238  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

shame,  and  fear  of  "that  horrid  man,"  she  fled,  half  sob 
bing,  to  his  arms. 

"No,  he  isn't  a  'horrid  man,'  either,"  whispered  her 
brother,  laughing.  "He  is  a  classmate  of  mine.  Why, 
Stanhope,  how  are  you?  I  did  not  know  that  you  and 
my  sister  were  so  well  acquainted,"  he  added,  half  banter- 
ingly  and  half  curiously,  for  as  yet  he  did  not  fully  under 
stand  the  scene. 

The  hall-lamp,  shining  through  the  open  door,  had  re 
vealed  the  features  of  the  young  man  (whom  we  must  now 
call  Mr.  Stanhope),  so  that  his  classmate  had  recognized 
him.  His  first  impulse  had  been  to  slip  away  in  the  dark 
ness,  and  so  escape  from  his  awkward  predicament;  but 
George  Alford's  prompt  address  prevented  this  and  brought 
him  to  bay.  He  was  painfully  embarrassed,  but  managed  to 
stammer : 

"I  was  taken  for  you,  I  think.  I  never  had  the  pleasure 
— honor  of  meeting  your  sister." 

"Oh,  ho!  1  see  now.  My  wild  little  sister  kissed  before 
she  looked.  Well,  that  was  your  good-fortune.  I  could 
keep  two  Thanksgiving  days  on  the  strength  of  such  a  kiss 
as  that,"  cried  the  light-hearted  student,  shaking  the  diffi 
dent,  shrinking  Mr.  Stanhope  warmly  by  the  hand.  "You 
will  hardly  need  a  formal  introduction  now.  But,  bless  me, 
where  is  she  ?  Has  the  November  wind  blown  her  away  ?" 

"I  think  your  sist — the  lady  passed 'around  to  the  side 
entrance.  I  fear  I  have  annoyed  her  sadly." 

"Nonsense!  A  good  joke — something  to  tease  the  little 
witch  about.  But  come  in.  I'm  forgetting  the  sacred  rites. ' ' 

And  before  the  bewildered  Mr.  Stanhope  could  help 
himself,  he  was  half  dragged  into  the  lighted  hall,  and  the 
door  shut  between  him  and  escape. 

In  the  meantime,  Elsie,  like  a  whirlwind,  had  burst  into 
the  kitchen,  where  Mrs.  Alford  was  superintending  some 
savory  dishes. 

"Oh,  mother,  George  has  come  and  has  a  horrid  man 
with  him,  who  nearly  devoured  me." 


THREE    THANKSGIVING   KISSES  239 

And,  with  this  rather  feminine  mode  of  stating  the  case, 
she  darted  into  the  dusky,  fire- lighted  parlor,  from  whence, 
unseen,  she  could  reconnoitre  the  hall.  Mr.  Stanhope  was 
just  saying: 

"Please  let  me  go.  I  have  stood  between  you  and  your 
welcome  long  enough.  I  shall  only  be  an  intruder;  and 
besides,  as  an  utter  stranger,  I  have  no  right  to  stay."  To 
all  of  which  Elsie  devoutly  whispered  to  herself,  "Amen." 

But  Mrs.  Alford  now  appeared,  and  after  a  warm,  moth- 
erly  greeting  to  her  son,  turned  in  genial  courtesy  to  wel- 
come  his  friend,  as  she  supposed. 

George  was  so  happy  that  he  wished  every  one  else  to  be 
the  same.  The  comical  episode  attending  Mr.  Stanhope's 
unexpected  appearance  just  hit  his  frolicsome  mood,  and 
promised  to  be  a  source  of  endless  merriment  if  he  could 
only  keep  his  classmate  over  the  coming  holiday.  More 
over,  he  long  had  wished  to  become  better  acquainted  with 
this  young  man,  whose  manner  at  the  seminary  had  deeply 
interested  him.  So  he  said: 

"Mother,  this  is  Mr.  Stanhope,  a  classmate  of  mine.  I 
wish  you  would  help  me  persuade  him  to  stay." 

"Why,  certainly,  I  supposed  you  expected  to  stay  with 
us,  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Alford,  hearthy. 

Mr.  Stanhope  looked  ready  to  sink  through  the  floor,  his 
face  crimson  with  vexation. 

"I  do  assure  you,  madam,"  he  urged,  "it  is  all  amis- 
take.  I  am  not  an  invited  guest.  I  was  merely  calling  on 
a  little  matter  of  business,  when — "  and  there  he  stopped. 
George  exploded  into  a  hearty,  uncontrollable  laugh;  while 
Elsie,  in  the  darkness,  shook  her  little  fist  at  the  stranger, 
who  hastened  to  add,  "Please  let  me  bid  you  good-evening. 
I  have  not  the  slightest  claim  on  your  hospitality." 

"Where  are  you  staying?"  asked  Mrs.  Alford,  a  little 
mystified.  "We  would  like  you  to  spend  at  least  part  of 
the  time  with  us." 

"I  do  not  expect  to  be  here  very  long.  I  have  a  room  at 
the  hotel." 


240  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

"Now,  look  here,  Stanhope,''  cried  George,  barring  all 
egress  by  planting  his  back  against  the  door,  "do  you  take 
me,  a  half -fledged  theologue,  for  a  heathen  ?  Do  you  sup 
pose  that  I  could  be  such  a  churl  as  to  let  a  classmate  stay 
at  our  dingy,  forlorn  little  tavern  and  eat  hash  on  Thanks 
giving  Day  ?  I  could  never  look  you  in  the  face  at  recita 
tion  again.  Have  some  consideration  for  my  peace  of  mind, 
and  I  am  sure  you  will  find  our  home  quite  as  endurable  as 
anything  Mr.  Starks  can  provide." 

"Oh!  as  to  that,  from  even  the  slight  glimpse  that  I 
have  had,  this  seems  more  like  a  home  than  anything 
I  have  known  for  many  years;  but  I  cannot  feel  it  right 
that  I,  an  unexpected  stranger — " 

"Come,  come!  No  more  of  that!  You  know  what  is 
written  about  'entertaining  strangers;'  so  that  is  your 
strongest  claim.  Moreover,  that  text  works  both  ways 
sometimes,  and  the  stranger  angel  finds  himself  among 
angels.  My  old  mother  here,  if  she  does  weigh  well  on 
toward  two  hundred,  is  more  like  one  than  anything  I 
have  yet  seen,  and  Elsie,  if  not  an  angel,  is  at  least  part 
witch  and  part  fairy.  But  you  need  not  fear  ghostly  en 
tertainment  from  mother's  larder.  As  you  are  a  Christian, 
and  not  a  Pagan,  no  more  of  this  reluctance.  Indeed, 
nolens  vokns,  I  shall  not  permit  you  to  go  out  into  this 
November  storm  to-night;"  and  Elsie,  to  her  dismay,  saw 
the  new-comer  led  up  to  the  "spare  room"  with  a  sort  of 
hospitable  violence. 

With  flaming  cheeks  and  eyes  half  full  of  indignant  tears, 
she  now  made  onslaught  on  her  mother,  who  had  returned 
to  the  kitchen,  where  she  was  making  preparations  for  a 
supper  that  might  almost  answer  for  the  dinner  the  next 
day. 

"Mother,  mother,"  she  exclaimed,  "how  could  you  keep 
that  disagreeable  stranger!  He  will  spoil  our  Thanks 
giving." 

"Why,  child,  what  is  the  matter?"  said  Mrs.  Alford, 
raising  her  eyes  in  surprise  to  her  daughter's  face,  that 


THREE    THANKSGIVING    KISSES  241 

looked  like  a  red  moon  through  the  mist  of  savory  vapors 
rising  from  the  ample  cooking-stove.  "I  don't  understand 
you.  Why  should  not  your  brother's  classmate  add  to  the 
pleasure  of  our  Thanksgiving?" 

"Well,  perhaps  if  we  had  expected  him,  if  he  had  come 
in  some  other  way,  and  we  knew  more  about  him — " 

"Bless  you,  child,  what  a  formalist  you  have  become. 
You  stand  on  a  fine  point  of  etiquette,  as  if  it  were  the  broad 
foundation  of  hospitality;  while  only  last  week  you  wanted 
a  ragged  tramp,  who  had  every  appearance  of  being  a  thief, 
to  stay  all  night.  Your  brother  thinks  it  a  special  provi 
dence  that  his  friend  should  have  turned  up  so  unex 
pectedly." 

"Oh,  dear!"  sighed  Elsie.  "If  that  is  what  the  doctrine 
of  special  providence  means,  I  shall  need  a  new  confession 
of  faith."  Then,  a  sudden  thought  occurring  to  her,  she 
vanished,  while  her  mother  smiled,  saying: 

"What  a  queer  child  she  is,  to  be  sure!" 

A  moment  later  Elsie  gave  a  sharp  knock  at  the  spare- 
room  door,  and  in  a  second  was  in  the  further  end  of  the 
dark  hall.  George  put  his  head  out. 

"Come  here,"  she  whispered.  "Are  you  sure  it's 
you?"  she  added,  holding  him  off  at  arm's-length. 

His  response  was  such  a  tempest  of  kisses  and  embraces 
that  in  her  nervous  state  she  was  quite  panic-stricken. 

"George,"  she  gasped,  "have  mercy  on  me!" 

"I  only  wished  to  show  you  how  he  felt,  so  you  would 
have  some  sympathy  for  him." 

"If  you  don't  stop,"  said  the  almost  desperate  girl,  "I 
will  shut  myself  up  and  not  appear  till  he  is  gone.  I  will 
any  way,  if  you  don't  make  me  a  solemn  promise." 

"Leave  out  the  'solemn.'  "    ' 

"No,  I  won't.  Upon  your  word  and  honor,  promise 
never  to  tell  what  has  happened — my  mistake,  I  mean." 

"Oh,  Elsie,  it's  too  good  to  keep,"  laughed  George. 

"Now,  George,  if  you  tell,"  sobbed  Elsie,  "you'll  spoil 
my  holiday,  your  visit,  and  everything." 

11— ROE— XI 


242  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

"If  you  feel  that  way,  you  foolish  child,  of  course  I 
won't  tell.  Indeed,  I  suppose  I  should  not,  for  Stanhope 
seems  half  frightened  out  of  his  wits  also. ' ' 

"Serves  him  right,  though  I  doubt  whether  he  has  many 
to  lose,"  said  Elsie,  spitefully. 

"Well,  I  will  do  my  best  to  keep  in,"  said  George, 
soothingly,  and  stroking  her  curls.  "But  you  will  let  it 
all  out;  you  see.  The  idea  of  your  keeping  anything  with 
your  April  face!" 

Elsie  acted  upon  the  hint,  and  went  to  her  room  in  order 
to  remove  all  traces  of  agitation  before  the  supper- bell 
should  summon  her  to  meet  the  dreaded  stranger. 

In  the  meantime,  Mr.  Alford  and  James,  the  second  son, 
had  come  up  from  the  village,  where  they  had  a  thriving 
business.  They  greeted  George's  friend  so  cocdially  that  it 
went  some  way  toward  putting  the  diffident  youth  at  his 
ease;  but  he  dreaded  meeting  Elsie  again  quite  as  much  as 
she  dreaded  meeting  him. 

"Who  is  this  Mr.  Stanhope?"  his  parents  asked,  as  they 
drew  George  aside  for  a  little  private  talk  after  his  long 
absence. 

"Well,  he  is  a  classmate  with  whom  I  have  long  wished 
to  get  better  acquainted;  but  he  is  so  shy  and  retiring  that 
I  have  made  little  progress.  He  came  from  another  semi 
nary,  and  entered  our  class  in  this  the  middle  year.  No  one 
seems  to  know  much  about  him;  and  indeed  he  has  shunned 
all  intimacies  and  devotes  himself  wholly  to  his  books.  The 
recitation- room  is  the  one  place  where  he  appears  well — for 
there  he  speaks  out,  as  if  forgetting  himself,  or  rather,  losing 
himself  in  some  truth  under  contemplation.  Sometimes  he 
will  ask  a  question  that  wakes  up  both  class  and  professor; 
but  at  other  times  it  seems  difficult  to  pierce  the  shell  of  his 
reserve  or  diffidence.  And  yet,  from  little  things  I  have 
seen,  I  know  that  he  has  a  good  warm  heart;  and  the  work 
ing  of  his  mind  in  the  recitation-room  fascinates  me.  Fur 
ther  than  this  I  know  little  about  him,  but  have  just  learned, 
from  his  explanation  as  to  his  unexpected  appearance  at  our 


THREE    THANKSGIVING    KISSES  243 

door,  that  he  is  very  poor,  and  purposed  to  spend  his  holi 
day  vacation  as  agent  for  a  new  magazine  that  is  offering 
liberal  premiums.  I  think  his  poverty  is  one  of  the  reasons 
why  he  has  so  shrunk  from  companionship  with  the  other 
students,  fle  thinks  he  ought  to  go  out  and  continue  his 
efforts  to-night." 

"This  stormy  night!"  ejaculated  kind  Mrs.  Alford. 
"It  would  be  barbarous." 

"Certainly  it  would,  mother.  We  must  not  let  him. 
But  you  must  all  be  considerate,  for  he  seems  excessively 
diffident  and  sensitive;  and  besides — but  no  matter." 

"No  fear  but  that  we  will  soon  make  him  at  home.  And 
it's  a  pleasure  to  entertain  people  who  are  not  surfeited  with 
attention.  I  don't  understand  Elsie,  however,  for  she  seems 
to  have  formed  a  violent  prejudice  against  him.  From  the 
nature  of  her  announcement  of  his  presence  I  gathered  that 
he  was  a  rather  forward  young  man." 

There  was  a  twinkle  in  George's  eye;  but  he  merely 
said: 

"Elsie  is  full  of  moods  and  tenses;  but  her  kind  little 
heart  is  always  the  same,  and  that  will  bring  her  around 
all  right." 

They  were  soon  after  marshalled  to  the  supper- room. 
Elsie  slipped  in  among  the  others,  but  was  so  stately  and 
demure,  and  with  her  curls  brushed  down  so  straight  that 
you  would  scarcely  have  known  her.  Her  father  caught 
his  pet  around  the  waist,  and  was  about  to  introduce  her, 
when  George  hastened  to  say  with  the  solemnity  of  an  un 
dertaker  that  Elsie  and  Mr.  Stanhope  had  met  before. 

Elsie  repented  the  promise  she  had  wrung  from  her 
brother,  for  any  amount  of  badinage  would  be  better  than 
this  depressing  formality.  She  took  her  seat,  not  daring  to 
look  at  the  obnoxious  guest;  and  the  family  noticed  with 
surprise  that  they  had  never  seen  the  little  maiden  so 
quenched  and  abashed  before.  But  George  good-naturedly 
tried  to  make  the  conversation  general,  so  as  to  give  them 
time  to  recover  themselves. 


244  TAKEN    ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

Elsie  soon  ventured  to  steal  shy  looks  at  Mr.  Stanhope, 
and  with  her  usual  quickness  discovered  that  he  was  more 
in  terror  of  her  than  she  of  him,  and  she  exulted  in  the  fact. 

"I'll  punish  him  well,  if  I  get  a  chance,"  she  thought 
with  a  certain  phase  of  the  feminine  sense  of  justice.  But 
the  sadness  of  his  face  quite  disarmed  her  when  her  mother, 
in  well-meant  kindness,  asked: 

"Where  is  your  home  located,  Mr.  Stanhope?" 

"In  the  seminary,"  he  answered  in  rather  a  low  tone. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  have  no  better  one 
than  a  forlorn  cell  in  Dogma  Hall?"  exclaimed  George, 
earnestly. 

Mr.  Stanhope  crimsoned,  and  then  grew  pale,  but  tried 
to  say  lightly,  "An  orphan  of  my  size  and  years  is  not  a 
very  moving  object  of  sympathy;  but  one  might  well  find  it 
difficult  not  to  break  the  Tenth  Commandment  while  seeing 
how  you  are  surrounded." 

Elsie  was  vexed  at  her  disposition  to  relent  toward  him; 
she  so  hardened  her  face,  however,  that  James  rallied  her: 

"Why,  Puss,  what  is  the  matter?  Yours  is  the  most 
unpromising  Thanksgiving  phiz  I  have  seen  to-day.  'Count 
your  marcies. '  ' 

Elsie  blushed  so  violently,  and  Mr.  Stanhope  looked  so 
distressed  that  James  finished  his  supper  in  puzzled  silence, 
thinking,  however,  "What  has  come  over  the  little  witch? 
For  a  wonder,  she  seems  to  have  met  a  man  that  she  is 
afraid  of;  but  the  joke  is,  he  seems  even  more  afraid  of 
her." 

In  the  social  parlor  some  of  the  stiffness  wore  off;  but 
Elsie  and  Mr.  Stanhope  kept  on  opposite  sides  of  the  room 
and  had  very  little  to  say  to  each  other.  Motherly  Mrs. 
Alford  drew  the  young  man  out  sufficiently,  however,  to 
become  deeply  interested  in  him. 

By  the  next  morning  time  for  thought  had  led  him  to 
feel  that  he  must  trespass  on  their  hospitality  no  longer. 
Moreover,  he  plainly  recognized  that  his  presence  was  an 
oppression  and  restraint  upon  Elsie;  and  he  was  very  sorry 


THREE    THANKSGIVING    KISSES  245 

that  lie  had  stayed  at  all.     But  when  he  made  known  his 
purpose  the  family  would  not  listen  to  it. 

"I  should  feel  dreadfully  hurt  if  you  left  us  now,"  said 
Mrs.  Alford,  so  decidedly  that  he  was  in  a  dilemma,  and 
stole  a  timid  look  toward  Elsie,  who  at  once  guessed  his 
motive  in  going  away.  Her  kind  heart  got  the  better  of 
her;  and  her  face  relented  in  a  sudden  reassuring  smile. 
Then  she  turned  hastily  away.  Only  George  saw  and  un 
derstood  the  little  side  scene  and  the  reason  Mr.  Stanhope 
was  induced  to  remain.  Then  Elsie,  in  her  quickly  vary 
ing  moods,  was  vexed  at  herself,  and  became  more  cold  and 
distant  than  ever.  "He  will  regard  me  as  only  a  pert,  for 
ward  miss,  but  I  will  teach  him  better,"  she  thought;  and 
she  astonished  the  family  more  and  more  by  a  stateliness 
utterly  unlike  herself.  Mr.  Stanhope  sincerely  regretted 
that  he  had  not  broken  away,  in  spite  of  the  others ;  but  in 
order  not  to  seem  vacillating  he  resolved  to  stay  till  the  fol 
lowing  morning,  even  though  he  departed  burdened  with  the 
thought  that  he  had  spoiled  the  day  for  one  of  the  family. 
Things  had  now  gone  so  far  that  leaving  might  only  lead  to 
explanations  and  more  general  annoyances,  for  George  had 
intimated  that  the  little  mistake  of  the  previous  evening 
should  remain  a  secret. 

And  yet  he  sincerely  wished  she  would  relent  toward 
him,  for  she  could  not  make  her  sweet  little  face  repellent. 
The  kiss  she  had  given  him  still  seemed  to  tingle  in  his 
very  soul,  while  her  last  smile  was  like  a  ray  of  warmest 
sunshine.  But  her  face,  never  designed  to  be  severe,  was 
averted. 

After  having  heard  the  affairs  of  the  nation  discussed  in 
a  sound,  scriptural  manner,  they  all  sat  down  to  a  dinner 
such  as  had  never  blessed  poor  Mr.  Stanhope's  vision  be 
fore.  A  married  son  and  daughter  returned  after  church, 
and  half  a  dozen  grandchildren  enlivened  the  gathering. 
There  was  need  of  them,  for  Elsie,  usually  in  a  state  of  wild 
effervescence  upon  such  occasions,  was  now  demure  and 
comparatively  silent.  The  children,  with  whom  she  was 


246  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

accustomed  to  romp  like  one  of  them,  were  perplexed  in 
deed;  and  only  the  intense  excitement  of  a  Thanksgiving 
dinner  diverted  their  minds  from  Aunt  Elsie,  so  sadly 
changed.  She  was  conscious  that  all  were  noting  her  ab 
sent  manner,  and  this  embarrassed  and  vexed  her  more; 
and  yet  she  seemed  under  a  miserable  paralysis  that  she 
could  neither  explain  nor  escape. 

"If  we  had  only  laughed  it  off  at  first,"  she  groaned  to 
herself;  "but  now  the  whole  thing  grows  more  absurd  and 
disagreeable  every  moment. ' ' 

"Why,  Elsie,"  said  her  father,  banteringly,  "you  doubted 
the  other  day  whether  Mrs.  Methuselah's  age  would  ever  sober 
you;  and  yet  1  think  that  good  old  lady  would  have  looked 
more  genial  on  Thanksgiving  Day.  What  is  the  matter?" 

"I  was  thinking  of  the  sermon,"  she  said. 

Amid  the  comic  elevation  of  eyebrows,  George  said  slyly : 

"Tell  us  the  text." 

Overwhelmed  with  confusion,  she  darted  a  reproachful 
glance  at  him  and  muttered: 

"I  did  not  say  anything  about  the  text." 

"Well,  tell  us  about  the  sermon  then,"  laughed  James. 

"No,"  said  Elsie,  sharply.  "I'll  quote  you  a  text:  'Eat, 
drink,  and  be  merry,'  and  let  me  alone." 

They  saw  that  for  some  reason  she  could  not  bear  teas 
ing,  and  that  such  badinage  troubled  Mr.  Stanhope  also. 
George  came  gallantly  to  the  rescue,  and  the  dinner-party 
grew  so  merry  that  Elsie  thawed  perceptibly  and  Stanhope 
was  beguiled  into  several  witty  speeches.  At  each  one 
Elsie  opened  her  eyes  in  wider  and  growing  appreciation. 
At  last,  when  they  rose  from  their  coffee,  she  come  to  the 
surprising  conclusion — 

"Why,  he  is  not  stupid  and  bad-looking  after  all." 

George  was  bent  on  breaking  the  ice  between  them,  and 
so  proposed  that  the  younger  members  of  the  family  party 
should  go  up  a  swollen  stream  and  see  the  fall.  But  Elsie 
flanked  herself  with  a  sister-in-law  on  one  side  and  a  niece 
on  the  other,  while  Stanhope  was  so  diffident  that  nothing 


THREE    THANKSGIVING    KISSES  247 

but  do w aright  encouragement  would  bring  him  to  her  side. 
So  George  was  almost  in  despair.  Elsie's  eyes  had  been 
conveying  favorable  impressions  to  her  reluctant  mind 
throughout  the  walk.  She  sincerely  regretted  that  such 
an  absurd  barrier  had  grown  up  between  her  and  Stanhope, 
but  could  not  for  the  life  of  her,  especially  before  others,  do 
anything  to  break  the  awkward  spell. 

At  last  they  were  on  their  return,  and  were  all 'grouped 
together  on  a  little  bluff,  watching  the  water  pour  foam- 
ingly  through  a  narrow  gorge. 

"Oh,  see,"  cried  Elsie,  suddenly  pointing  to  the  oppo 
site  bank,  "what  beautiful  moss  that  is  over  there!  It  is 
just  the  kind  I  have  been  wanting.  Oh,  dear!  there  isn't  a 
bridge  within  half  a  mile. ' ' 

Stanhope  glanced  around  a  moment,  and  then  said  gal 
lantly,  "I  will  get  you  the  moss,  Miss  Alford."  They  saw 
that  in  some  inconceivable  way  he  intended  crossing  where 
they  stood.  The  gorge  was  much  too  wide  for  the  most 
vigorous  leap,  so  Elsie  exclaimed  eagerly: 

"Oh,  please  don't  take  any  risk!    What  is  a  little  moss?" 

"I  say,  Stanhope,"  remonstrated  George,  seriously,  "it 
would  be  no  laughing  matter  if  you  should  fall  in  there." 

But  Stanhope  only  smiled,  threw  off  his  overcoat,  and 
buttoned  his  undercoat  closely  around  him.  George  groaned 
to  himself,  "This  will  be  worse  than  the  kissing  scrape,"  and 
was  about  to  lay  a  restraining  grasp  upon  his  friend.  But 
he  slipped  away,  and  lightly  went  up  hand-over-hand  a  tall, 
slender  sapling  on  the  edge  of  the  bank,  the  whole  party 
gathering  round  in  breathless  expectation.  Having  reached 
its  slender,  swaying  top,  he  threw  himself  out  on  the  land 
side.  The  tree  bent  at  once  to  the  ground  with  his  weight, 
but  without  snapping,  showing  that  it  was  tough  and  fibrous. 
Holding  firmly  to  the  top,  he  gave  a  strong  spring,  which, 
with  the  spring  of  the  bent  sapling,  sent  him  well  over  the 
gorge  on  the  firm  ground  beyond. 

There  was  a  round  of  applause  from  the  little  group  he 
had  just  left,  in  which  Elsie  joined  heartily.  Her  eyes  were 


248  TAKEN  ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

glowing  with  admiration,  for  when  was  not  power  and  dar 
ing  captivating  to  a  woman  ?  Then,  in  sudden  alarm  and 
forgetfulness  of  her  former  coolness,  she  exclaimed: 

"But  how  will  you  get  back  ?" 

"This  is  my  bridge,"  he  replied,  smiling  brightly  across 
to  her,  and  holding  on  to  the  slender  young  tree.  "You 
perceive  that  I  was  brought  up  in  the  country. ' ' 

So  saying,  he  tied  the  sapling  down  to  a  root  with  a 
handkerchief,  and  then  proceeded  to  fill  another  with  moss. 

As  George  saw  Elsie's  face  while  she  watched  Stanhope 
gather  the  coveted  trifle,  he  chuckled  to  himself — 

"The  ice  is  broken  between  them  now." 

But  Stanhope  had  insecurely  fastened  the  sapling  down. 
The  strain  upon  the  knot  was  too  severe,  and  suddenly  the 
young  tree  flew  up  and  stood  erect  but  quivering,  with  his 
handkerchief  fluttering  in  its  top  as  a  symbol  of  defeat. 
There  was  an  exclamation  of  dismay  and  Elsie  again 
asked  with  real  anxiety  in  her  tone: 

"How  will  you  get  back  now  ?" 

Stanhope  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  confess  I  am  defeated,  for  there  is  no  like  sapling  on 
this  side;  but  I  have  the  moss,  and  can  join  you  at  the 
bridge  below,  if  nothing  better  offers." 

"George,"  said  Elsie,  indignantly,  "don't  go  away  and 
leave  Mr.  Stanhope's  handkerchief  in  that  tree." 

"Bless  you,  child,"  cried  George,  mischievously,  and 
leading  the  way  down  the  path,  "I  can't  climb  any  more 
than  a  pumpkin.  You  will  have  to  go  back  with  him  after 
it,  or  let  it  wave  as  a  memento  of  his  gallantry  on  your 
behalf." 

"If  I  can  only  manage  to  throw  them  together  without 
any  embarrassing  third  parties  present,  the  ridiculous  re 
straint  they  are  under  will  soon  vanish,"  he  thought;  and 
so  he  hastened  his  steps.  The  rest  trooped  after  him,  while 
Stanhope  made  his  way  with  difficulty  on  the  opposite  bank, 
where  there  was  no  path.  His  progress  therefore  was  slow; 
and  Elsie  saw  that  if  she  did  not  linger  he  would  be  left  be- 


THREE    THANKSGIVING    KISSES  249 

hind.  Common  politeness  forbade  this,  and  so  she  soon 
found  herself  alone,  carrying  his  overcoat  on  one  bank, 
and  he  keeping  pace  with  her  on  the  other.  She  comforted 
herself  at  first  with  the  thought  that  with  the  brawling, 
deafening  stream  between  them,  there  would  be  no  chance 
for  embarrassing  conversation.  But  soon  her  sympathies 
became  aroused,  as  she  saw  him  toilsomely  making  his  way 
over  the  rocks  and  through  the  tangled  thickets :  and  as  she 
could  not  speak  to  him,  she  smiled  her  encouragement  so 
often  that  she  felt  it  would  be  impossible  to  go  back  to  her 
old  reserve. 

Stanhope  now  came  to  a  little  opening  in  the  brush.  The 
cleared  ground  sloped  evenly  down  to  the  stream,  and  its  cur 
rent  was  divided  by  a  large  rock.  He  hailed  the  opportu 
nity  here  offered  with  delight,  for  he  was  very  anxious  to 
speak  to  her  before  they  should  join  the  others.  So  he 
startled  Elsie  by  walking  out  into  the  clearing,  away  from 
the  stream. 

"Well,  I  declare;  that's  cool,  to  go  and  leave  me  alone 
without  a  word,"  she  thought. 

But  she  was  almost  terror-stricken  to  see  him  turn  and 
dart  to  the  torrent  like  an  arrow.  With  a  long  flying  leap, 
he  landed  on  the  rock  in  the  midst  of  the  stream,  and  then, 
without  a  second's  hesitation,  with  the  impetus  already  ac 
quired,  sprang  for  the  solid  ground  where  she  stood,  struck 
it,  wavered,  and  would  have  fallen  backward  into  the  water 
had  not  she,  quick  as  thought,  stepped  forward  and  given 
him  her  hand. 

"You  have  saved  me  from  a  ducking,  if  not  worse,"  he 
said,  giving  the  little  rescuing  hand  a  warm  pressure. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  she,  panting,  "please  don't  do  any 
more  dreadful  things.  I  shall  be  careful  how  I  make  any 
wishes  in  your  hearing  again. ' ' 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  say  that,"  he  replied.  And  then 
there  was  an  awkward  silence. 

Elsie  could  think  of  nothing  better  than  to  refer  to  the 
handkerchief  they  had  left  behind. 


TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

"Will  you  wait  for  me  till  I  run  and  get  it?"  he  asked. 

"I  will  go  back  with  you,  if  you  will  permit  me,"  she 
said  timidly. 

"Indeed,  I  could  not  ask  so  much  of  you  as  that." 

"And  yet  you  could  about  the  same  as  risk  your  iieck  to 
gratify  a  whim  of  mine,"  she  said  more  gratefully  than  she 
intended. 

"Please  do  not  think,"  he  replied  earnestly,  "that  I  have 
been  practicing  cheap  heroics.  As  I  said,  I  was  a  country 
boy,  and  in  my  early  home  thought  nothing  of  doing  such 
things."  But  even  the  brief  reference  to  that  vanished 
home  caused  him  to  sigh  deeply,  and  Elsie  gave  him  a  wist 
ful  look  of  sympathy. 

For  a  few  moments  they  walked  on  in  silence.  Then  Mr. 
Stanhope  turned,  and  with  some  hesitation  said: 

"Miss  Alford,  I  did  very  wrong  to  stay  after — after  last 
evening.  But  my  better  judgment  was  borne  down  by  in 
vitations  so  cordial  that  I  hardly  knew  how  to  resist  them. 
At  the  same  time  I  now  realize  that  I  should  have  done  so. 
Indeed,  I  would  go  away  at  once,  would  not  such  a  course 
only  make  matters  worse.  And  yet,  after  receiving  so  much 
kindness  from  your  family,  more  than  has  blessed  me  for 
many  long  years — for  since  my  dear  mother  died  I  have 
been  quite  alone  in  the  world — I  feel  I  cannot  go  away 
without  some  assurance  or  proof  that  you  will  forgive  me 
for  being  such  a  kill- joy  in  your  holiday." 

Elsie's  vexation  with  herself  now  knew  no  bounds.  She 
stopped  in  the  path,  determining  that  she  would  clear  up 
matters,  cost  what  it  might. 

"Mr.  Stanhope,"  she  said,  "will  you  grant  a  request  that 
will  contain  such  assurance,  or  rather,  will  show  you  that  I 
am  heartily  ashamed  of  my  foolish  course  ?  Will  you  not 
spend  next  Thanksgiving  with  us,  and  give  me  a  chance  to 
retrieve  myself  from  first  to  last  ?' ' 

His  face  brightened  wonderfully  as  he  replied,  "I  will 
only  be  too  glad  to  do  so,  if  you  truly  wish  it." 

"I  do  wish  it,"-  she  said  earnestly.     "What  must  you 


THREE    THANKSGIVING    KISSES  251 

think  of  me?"  (His  eyes  then  expressed  much  admiration; 
but  hers  were  fixed  on  the  ground  and  half  filled  with  tears 
of  vexation.)  Then,  with  a  pretty  humility  that  was  ex 
quisite  in  its  simplicity  and  artlessness,  she  added: 

"You  have  noticed  at  home  that  they  call  me  'child' — 
and  indeed,  I  am  little  more  than  one — and  now  see  that 
I  have  behaved  like  a  very  silly  and  naughty  one  toward 
you.  1  have  trampled  on  every  principle  of  hospitality, 
kindness,  and  good-breeding.  I  have  no  patience  with 
myself,  and  I  wish  another  chance  to  show  that  I  can  do 
better.  I—" 

"Oh,  Miss  Alford,  please  do  not  judge  yourself  so 
harshly  and  unjustly,"  interrupted  Stanhope. 

"Oh,  dear!"  sighed  Elsie,  "I'm  so  sorry  for  what  hap 
pened  last  night.  We  all  might  have  had  such  a  good 
time." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Stanhope,  demurely,  "I  suppose  I 
ought  to  be  also." 

"And  do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  are  not?"  she  asked, 
turning  suddenly  upon  him. 

"Oh,  well,  certainly,  for  your  sake,"  he  said  with  rising 
color. 

"But  not  for  your  own?"  she  asked  with  almost  the 
naivete  of  a  child. 

He  turned  away  with  a  perplexed  laugh  and  replied: 
"Eeally,  Miss  Alford,  you  are  worse  than  the  Catechism." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  half-amused,  half-surprised 
expression,  the  thought  occurring  to  her  for  the  first  time 
that  it  might  not  have  been  so  disagreeable  to  him  after  all ; 
and  somehow  this  thought  was  quite  a  relief  to  her.  But 
she  said:  "I  thought  you  would  regard  me  as  a  hoyden  of 
the  worst  species. ' ' 

"Because  you  kissed  your  brother?  I  have  never  for 
a  moment  forgotten  that  it  was  only  your  misfortune  that 
1  was  not  he." 

"I  should  have  remembered  that  it  was  not  your  fault. 
But  here  is  your  handkerchief,  flying  like  a  flag  of  truce; 


252  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

so  let  bygones  be  bygones.  My  terms  are  that  you  come 
again  another  year,  and  give  me  a  chance  to  entertain  my 
brother's  friend  as  a  sister  ought." 

"I  am  only  too  glad  to  submit  to  them,"  he  eagerly  re 
plied,  and  then  added,  so  ardently  as  to  deepen  the  roses 
already  in  her  cheeks,  "If  such  are  your  punishments,  Miss 
Alford,  how  delicious  must  be  your  favors!" 

By  common  consent  the  subject  was  dropped;  and  with 
tongues  released  from  awkward  restraint,  they  chatted  freely 
together,  till  in  the  early  twilight  they  reached  her  home. 
The  moment  they  entered  George  exultingly  saw  that  the 
skies  were  serene. 

But  Elsie  would  never  be  the  frolicsome  child  of  the  past 
again.  As  she  surprised  the  family  at  dinner,  so  now  at 
supper  they  could  scarcely  believe  that  the  elegant,  grace 
ful  young  lady  was  the  witch  of  yesterday.  She  had  re 
solved  with  all  her  soul  to  try  to  win  some  place  in  Mr. 
Stanhope's  respect  before  he  departed,  and  never  did  a  little 
maiden  succeed  better. 

In  the  evening  they  had  music;  and  Mr.  Stanhope  pleased 
them  all  with  his  fine  tenor,  while  Elsie  delighted  him  by 
her  clear,  birdlike  voice.  So  the  hours  fled  away. 

"You  think  better  of  the  'horrid  man,'  little  Sis,"  said 
George,  as  he  kissed  her  good-night. 

"I  was  the  horrid  one,"  said  Elsie,  penitently.  "I  can 
never  forgive  myself  my  absurd  conduct.  But  he  has 
promised  to  come  again  next  Thanksgiving,  and  give  me 
a  chance  to  do  better;  so  don't  you  fail  to  bring  him." 

George  gave  a  long,  low  whistle,  and  then  said:  "Oh! 
ab  1  Seems  to  me  you  are  coming  on,  for  an  innocent.  Are 
we  to  get  mixed  up  again  in  the  twilight  ?' ' 

"Nonsense!"  said  Elsie,  with  a  peony  face,  and  she 
slammed  her  door  upon  him. 

The  next  morning  the  young  man  took  his  leave,  and 
Elsie's  last  words  were: 

"Mr.  Stanhope,  remember  your  promise." 

And  he  did  remember  more  than  that,   for  this  brief 


THREE    THANKSGIVING    KISSES 

visit  had  enshrined  a  sweet,  girlish  face  within  his  heart 
of  hearts,  and  he  no  longer  felt  lonely  and  orphaned.  He 
and  George  became  the  closest  friends,  and  messages  from 
the  New  England  home  came  to  him  with  increasing  fre 
quency,  which  he  returned  with  prodigal  interest.  It  also 
transpired  that  he  occasionally  wrote  for  the  papers,  and 
Elsie  insisted  that  these  should  be  sent  to  her;  while  he  of 
course  wrote  much  better  with  the  certainty  that  she  would 
be  his  critic.  Thus,  though  separated,  they  daily  became 
better  acquainted,  and  during  the  year  George  found  it  not 
very  difficult  to  induce  his  friend  to  make  several  visits. 

But  it  was  with  joy  that  seemed  almost  too  rich  for 
earthly  experience  that  he  found  himself  walking  up  the 
village  street  with  George  the  ensuing  Thanksgiving  Eve. 
Elsie  was  at  the  door;  and  he  pretended  to  be  disconsolate 
that  his  reception  was  not  the  same  as  on  the  previous  year. 
Indeed  she  had  to  endure  not  a  little  chaffing,  for  her  mis 
take  was  a  family  joke  now. 

It  was  a  peerless  Thanksgiving  eve  and  day — one  of  the 
sunlighted  heights  of  human  happiness. 

After  dinner  they  all  again  took  a  walk  up  the  brawling 
stream,  and  Stanhope  and  Elsie  became  separated  from  the 
rest,  though  not  so  innocently  as  on  the  former  occasion. 

"See!"  cried  Elsie,  pointing  to  the  well-remembered 
sapling,  which  she  had  often  visited.  "There  fluttered  our 
flag  of  truce  last  year." 

Stanhope  seized  her  hand  and  said  eagerly:  "And  here 
I  again  break  the  truce,  and  renew  the  theme  we  dropped 
at  this  place.  Oh,  Elsie,  I  have  felt  that  kiss  in  the  depths 
of  my  heart  every  hour  since;  and  in  that  it  led  to  my 
knowing  and  loving  you,  it  has  made  every  day  from  that 
time  one  of  thanksgiving.  If  you  could  return  my  love,  as 
I  have  dared  to  hope,  it  would  be  a  happiness  beyond 
words.  If  I  could  venture  to  take  one  more  kiss,  as  a  token 
that  it  is  returned,  I  could  keep  Thanksgiving  forever." 

Her  hand  trembled  in  his,  but  was  not  withdrawn.  Her 
blushing  face  was  turned  away  toward  the  brawling  stream-, 


254  TAKEN   ALIVE.    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

but  she  saw  not  its  foam,  she  heard  not  its  hoarse  murmurs. 
A  sweeter  music  was  in  her  ears.  She  seemed  under  a  de 
licious  spell,  but  soon  became  conscious  that  a  pair  of  dark 
eyes  were  looking  down  eagerly,  anxiously  for  her  answer. 
Shyly  raising  hers,  that  now  were  like  dewy  violets,  she 
said,  with  a  little  of  her  old  witchery: 

"1  suppose  you  will  have  to  kiss  me  this  Thanksgiving, 
to  make  things  even." 

Stanhope  needed  no  broader  hint 

"I  owe  you  a  heavy  grudge,"  said  Mr.  Alford,  in  the 
evening.  "A  year  ago  you  robbed  me  of  my  child,  for 
little,  kittenish  Elsie  became  a  thoughtful  woman  from 
the  day  you  were  here;  and  now  you  are  going  to  take 
away  the  daughter  of  my  old.  age. ' ' 

4 'Yes,  indeed,  husband.  Now  you  know  how  my  father 
felt,"  said  Mrs.  Alford,  at  the  same  time  wiping  something 
from  the  corner  of  her  eye. 

"Bless  me,  are  you  here?"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
wheeling  round  to  his  wife.  "Mr.  Stanhope,  I  have  noth 
ing  more  to  say." 

"I  declare,"  exulted  George,  "that  'horrid  man'  will 
devour  Elsie  yet" 

"Haw!  haw!  haw!"  laughed  big- voiced,  big-hearted 
James.  "The  idea  of  our  little  witch  of  an  Elsie  being 
a  minister's  wife!" 

It  is  again  Thanksgiving  Eve.  The  trees  are  gaunt,  the 
fields  bare  and  brown,  with  dead  leaves  whirling  across 
them;  but  a  sweeter  than  June  sunshine  seems  filling  the 
cosey  parlor  where  Elsie,  a  radiant  bride,  is  receiving  her 
husband's  first  kiss  almost  on  the  moment  that  she  with 
her  lips  so  unexpectedly  kindled  the  sacred  fire,  three 
years  before. 


SUSIE   ROLLIFFE'S  CHRISTMAS 


PICNICKING  in  December  would  be  a  dreary  experi 
ence  even  if  one  could  command  all  the  appliances 
of  comfort  which  outdoor  life  permitted.    This  would 
be  especially  true  in  the  latitude  of   Boston  and  on  the 
bleak  hills  overlooking  that  city  and  its  environing  waters. 
Dreary  business  indeed  Ezekiel  Watkins  regarded  it  as  he 
shivered  over  the  smoky  camp-fire  which  he  maintained 
with  difficulty.     The  sun  was  sinking  into  the  southwest 
so  early  in  the  day  that  he  remarked  irritably:  "Durned  if 
it  was  worth  while  for  it  to  rise  at  all." 

Ezekiel  Watkins,  or  Zeke,  as  he  was  generally  known 
among  his  comrades,  had  ceased  to  be  a  resident  on  that 
rocky  hillside  from  pleasure.  His  heart  was  in  a  Connec 
ticut  valley  in  more  senses  than  one;  and  there  was  not 
a  more  homesick  soldier  in  the  army.  It  will  be  readily 
guessed  that  the  events  of  our  story  occurred  more  than  a 
century  ago.  The  shots  fired  at  Bunker  Hill  had  echoed 
in  every  nook  and  corner  of  the  New  England  colonies,  and 
the  heart  of  Zeke  Watkins,  among  thousands  of  others, 
had  been  fired  with  military  ardor.  With  companions  in 
like  frame  of  mind  he  had  trudged  to  Boston,  breathing 
slaughter  and  extermination  against  the  red- coated  instru 
ments  of  English  tyranny.  To  Zeke  the  expedition  had 
many  of  the  elements  of  an  extended  bear-hunt,  much  ex 
alted.  There  was  a  spice  of  danger  and  a  rich  promise  of 
novelty  and  excitement.  The  inarch  to  the  lines  About 
Boston  had  been  a  continuous  ovation;  grandsires  came  out 
from  the  wayside  dwellings  and  blessed  the  rustic  soldiers; 
they  were  dined  profusely  by  the  housewives,  and  if  not 

(266) 


256  TAKEN    ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

wined,  there  had  been  slight  stint  in  New  England  rum 
and  cider;  the  apple-cheeked  daughters  of  the  land  gave 
them  the  meed  of  heroes  in  advance,  and  abated  somewhat 
of  their  ruddy  hues  at  the  thought  of  the  dangers  to  be 
incurred.  Zeke  was  visibly  dilated  by  all  this  attention, 
incense,  and  military  glory;  and  he  stepped  forth  from 
each  village  and  hamlet  as  if  the  world  were  scarcely  large 
enough  for  the  'prowess  of  himself  and  companions.  Even 
on  parade  he  was  as  stiff  as  his  long-barrelled  flintlock, 
looking  as  if  England  could  hope  for  no  quarter  at  his 
hands;  yet  he  permitted  no  admiring  glances  from  bright 
eyes  to  escape  him.  He  had  not  traversed  half  the  distance 
between  his  native  hamlet  and  Boston  before  he  was  abun 
dantly  satisfied  that  pretty  Susie  Rolliffe  had  made  no  mis 
take  in  honoring  him  among  the  recruits  by  marks  of  espe 
cial  favor.  He  wore  in  his  squirrel-skin  cap  the  bit  of  blue 
ribbon  she  had  given  him,  and  with  the  mien  of  a  Homeric 
hero  had  intimated  darkly  that  it  might  be  crimson  before 
she  saw  it  again.  She  had  clasped  her  hands,  stifled  a  little 
sob,  and  looked  at  him  admiringly.  He  needed  no  stronger 
assurance  than  her  eyes  conveyed  at  that  moment.  She 
had  been  shy  and  rather  unapproachable  before,  sought  by 
others  than  himself,  yet  very  chary  of  her  smiles  and  favors 
to  all.  Her  ancestors  had  fought  the  Indians,  and  had  be 
queathed  to  the  demure  little  maiden  much  of  their  own 
indomitable  spirit.  She  had  never  worn  her  heart  on  her 
sleeve,  and  was  shy  of  her  rustic  admirers  chiefly  because 
none  of  them  had  realized  her  ideals  of  manhood  created  by 
fireside  stories  of  the  past. 

Zeke's  chief  competitor  for  Susie's  favor  had  been  Zeb- 
ulon  Jarvis;  and  while  he  had  received  little  encourage 
ment,  he  laid  his  unostentatious  devotion  at  her  feet  un 
stintedly,  and  she  knew  it.  Indeed,  she  was  much  inclined 
to  laugh  at  him,  for  he  was  singularly  bashful,  and  a  frown 
from  her  overwhelmed  him.  Unsophisticated  Susie  reasoned 
that  any  one  who  could  be  so  afraid  of  her  could  not  be  much 
of  a  man.  She  had  never  heard  of  his  doing  anything  bold 


SUSIE   ROLLIFFE'S    CHRISTMAS  257 

and  spirited.  It  might  be  said,  indeed,  that  the  attempt  to 
wring  a  livelihood  for  his  widowed  mother  and  for  his 
younger  brothers  and  sisters  from  the  stumpy,  rocky  farm 
required  courage  of  the  highest  order;  but  it  was  not  of  a 
kind  that  appealed  to  the  fancy  of  a  romantic  young  girl. 
Nothing  finer  or  grander  had  Zebulon  attempted  before  the 
recruiting  officer  came  to  Opinquake,  and  when  he  came, 
poor  Zeb  appeared  to  hang  back  so  timorously  that  he  lost 
what  little  place  he  had  in  Susie's  thoughts.  She  was  igno 
rant  of  the  struggle  taking  place  in  his  loyal  heart.  More 
intense  even  than  his  love  for  her  was  the  patriotic  fire 
which  smouldered  in  his  breast;  yet  when  other  young  men 
were  giving  in  their  names  and  drilling  on  the  village  green, 
he  was  absent.  To  the  war  appeals  of  those  who  sought  him, 
he  replied  briefly:  "Can't  leave  till  fall." 

"But  the  fighting  will  be  over  long  before  that,"  it  was 
urged. 

"So  much  the  better  for  others,  then,  if  not  for  me." 

Zeke  Watkins  made  it  his  business  that  Susie  should 
hear  this  reply  in  the  abbreviated  form  of,  "So  much  the 
better,  then." 

She  had  smiled  scornfully,  and  it  must  be  added,  a  little 
bitterly.  In  his  devotion  Zeb  had  been  so  helpless,  so 
diffidently  unable  to  take  his  own  part  and  make  advances 
that  she,  from  odd  little  spasms  of  sympathy,  had  taken  his 
part  for  him,  and  laughingly  repeated  to  herself  in  solitude 
all  the  fine  speeches  which  she  perceived  he  would  be  glad 
to  make.  But,  as  has  been  intimated,  it  seemed  to  her  droll 
indeed  that  such  a  great  stalwart  fellow  should  appear  panic- 
stricken  in  her  diminutive  presence.  In  brief,  he  had  been 
timidity  embodied  under  her  demurely-mischievous  blue 
eyes;  and  now  that  the  recruiting  officer  had  come  and 
marched  away  with  his  squad  without  him,  she  felt  in 
censed  that  such  a  chicken-hearted  fellow  had  dared  to  lift 
his  eyes  to  her. 

"It  would  go  hard  with  the  Widow  Jar  vis  and  all  those 
children  if  Zeb  'listed,"  Susie's  mother  had  ventured  in 


258  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STOEIES 

half-hearted  defence,  for  did  she  not  look  upon  him  as  a 
promising  suitor. 

"The  people  of  Opinquake  wouldn't  let  the  widow  or  the 
children  starve,"  replied  Susie,  indignantly.  "If  I  was  a 
big  fellow  like  him,  my  country  would  not  call  me  twice. 
Think  how  grandfather  left  grandma  and  all  the  children!" 

"Well,  I  guess  Zeb  thinks  he  has  his  hands  full  wrast- 
ling  with  that  stony  farm." 

"He  needn't  come  to  see  me  any  more,  or  steal  glances 
at  me  'tween  meetings  on  Sunday,"  said  the  girl,  decisively. 
"He  cuts  a  sorry  figure  beside  Zeke  Watkins,  who  was  the 
first  to  give  in  his  name,  and  who  began  to  march  like  a 
soldier  even  before  he  left  us." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Rolliffe;  "Zeke  was  very  forward.  If 
he  holds  out  as  he  began —  Well,  well,  Zeke  allus  was  a 
little  forward,  and  able  to  speak  for  himself.  You  are 
young  yet,  Susan,  and  may  learn  before  you  reach  my 
years  that  the  race  isn't  alias  to  the  swift.  Don't  be  in 
haste  to  promise  yourself  to  any  of  the  young  men." 

"Little  danger  of  my  promising  myself  to  a  man  who  is 
afraid  even  of  me!  I  want  a  husband  like  grandfather.  He 
wasn't  afraid  to  face  anything,  and  he  honored  his  wife  by 
acting  as  if  she  wasn't  afraid  either." 

Zeb  gave  Susie  no  chance  to  bestow  the  rebuffs  she  had 
premeditated.  He  had  been  down  to  witness  the  departure 
of  the  Opinquake  quota,  and  had  seen  Susie's  farewell  to 
Zeke  Watkins.  How  much  it  had  meant  he  was  not  sure — 
enough  to  leave  no  hope  or  chance  for  him,  he  had  believed; 
but  he  had  already  fought  his  first  battle,  and  it  had  been 
a  harder  one  than  Zeke  Watkins  or  any  of  his  comrades 
would  ever  engage  in.  He  had  returned  and  worked  on  the 
stony  farm  until  dark.  From  dawn  until  dark  he  continued 
to  work  every  secular  day  till  September. 

His  bronzed  face  grew  as  stern  as  it  was  thin;  and  since 
he  would  no  longer  look  at  her,  Susie  Rolliffe  began  to  steal 
an  occasional  and  wondering  glance  at  him  "  'tween  meet 
ings." 


SUSIE   ROLLIFFE'S    CHRISTMAS  259 

No  one  understood  the  young  man  or  knew  his  plans 
except  his  patient,  sad- eyed  mother,  and  she  learned  more 
by  her  intuitions  than  from  his  spoken  words.  She  idolized 
him,  and  he  loved  and  revered  her;  but  the  terrible  Puritan 
restraint  paralyzed  manifestations  of  affection.  She  was  not 
taken  by  surprise  when  one  evening  he  said  quietly,  "Mother, 
I  guess  I'll  start  in  a  day  or  two." 

She  could  not  repress  a  sort  of  gasping  sob  however,  but 
after  a  few  moments  was  able  to  say  steadily,  "I  supposed 
you  were  preparing  to  leave  us." 

"Yes,  mother,  I've  been  a-preparing.  I've  done  my  best 
to  gather  in  everything  that  would  help  keep  you  and  the 
children  and  the  stock  through  the  winter.  The  corn  is  all 
shocked,  and  the  older  children  can  help  you  husk  it,  and 
gather  in  the  pumpkins,  the  beans,  and  the  rest.  As  soon 
as  I  finish  digging  the  potatoes  I  think  I'll  feel  better  to  be 
in  the  lines  around  Boston.  I'd  have  liked  to  have  gone  at 
first,  but  in  order  to  fight  as  I  ought  I'd  want  to  remember 
there  was  plenty  to  keep  you  and  the  children." 

"I'm  afraid,  Zebulon,  you've  been  fighting  as  well  as 
working  so  hard  all  summer  long.  For  my  sake  and  the 
children's,  you've  been  letting  Susan  Rolliffe  think  meanly 
of  you. ' ' 

"I  can't  help  what  she  thinks,  mother;  I've  tried  not  to 
act  meanly." 

"Perhaps  the  God  of  the  widow  and  the  fatherless  will 
shield  and  bless  you,  my  son.  Be  that  as  it  may,"  she 
added  with  a  heavy  sigh,  "conscience  and  His  will  must 
guide  in  everything.  If  He  says  go  forth  to  battle,  what 
am  I  that  I  should  stay  you?"  Although  she  did  not 
dream  of  the  truth,  the  Widow  Jarvis  was  a  disciplined 
soldier  herself.  To  her,  faith  meant  unquestioning  sub 
mission  and  obedience;  she  had  been  taught  to  revere  a 
jealous  and  an  exacting  God  rather  than  a  loving  one. 
The  heroism  with  which  she  pursued  her  toilsome,  narrow, 
shadowed  pathway  was  as  sublime  as  it  was  unrecognized 
on  her  part.  After  she  had  retired  she  wept  sorely,  not 


260  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

only  because  her  eldest  child  was  going  to  danger,  and  per 
haps  death,  but  also  for  the  reason  that  her  heart  clung  to 
him  so  weakly  and  selfishly,  as  she  believed.  With  a  ten 
derness  of  which  she  was  half-ashamed  she  filled  his  wallet 
with  provisions  which  would  add  to  his  comfort,  then,  both 
to  his  surprise  and  her  own,  kissed  him  good- by.  He  left 
her  and  the  younger  brood  with  an  aching  heart  of  which 
there  was  little  outward  sign,  and  with  no  loftier  ambition 
than  to  do  his  duty;  she  followed  him  with  deep,  wistful 
eyes  till  he,  and  next  the  long  barrel  of  his  rifle,  disap 
peared  in  an  angle  of  the  road,  and  then  her  interrupted 
work  was  resumed. 

Susie  Eollifie  was  returning  from  an  errand  to  a  neigh 
bor's  when  she  heard  the  sound  of  long  rapid  steps. 

A  hasty  glance  revealed  Zeb  in  something  like  pursuit. 
Her  heart  fluttered  slightly,  for  he  had  looked  so  stern  and 
sad  of  late  that  she  had  felt  a  little  sorry  for  him  in  spite  of 
herself.  But  since  he  could  "wrastle"  with  nothing  more 
formidable  than  a  stony  farm,  she  did  not  wish  to  have  any 
thing  to  say  to  him,  or  meet  the  embarrassment  of  explain 
ing  a  tacit  estrangement.  She  was  glad,  therefore,  that  her 
gate  was  so  near,  and  passed  in  as  if  she  had  not  recognized 
him.  She  heard  his  steps  become  slower  and  pause  at  the 
gate,  and  then  almost  in  shame  in  being  guilty  of  too  marked 
discourtesy,  she  turned  to  speak,  but  hesitated  in  surprise, 
for  now  she  recognized  his  equipment  as  a  soldier. 

"Why,  Mr.  Jarvis,  where  are  you  going  ?"  she  exclaimed. 

A  dull  red  flamed  through  the  bronze  of  his  thin  cheeks 
as  he  replied  awkwardly,  "1  thought  I'd  take  a  turn  in  the 
lines  around  Boston. ' ' 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  replied,  mischievously,  "take  a  turn  in 
the  lines.  Then  we  may  expect  you  back  by  corn-husking?" 

He  was  deeply  wounded,  and  in  his  embarrassment  could 
think  of  no  other  reply  than  the  familiar  words,  "  'Let  not 
him  that  girdeth  on  his  harness  boast  himself  as  he  that 
putteth  it  off. '  ' 

"I  can't  help  hoping,  Mr.  Jarvis,  that  neither  you  nor 


SUSIE   ROLLIFFE'S   CHRISTMAS  261 

others  will  put  it  off  too  soon — not,  at  least,  while  King 
George  claims  to  be  our  master.  When  we're  free  1  can 
stand  any  amount  of  boasting." 

"You'll  never  hear  boasting  from  me,  Miss  Susie;"  and 
then  an  awkward  silence  fell  between  them. 

Shyly  and  swiftly  she  raised  her  eyes.  He  looked  so 
humble,  deprecatory,  and  unsoldierlike  that  she  could  not 
repress  a  laugh.  "I'm  not  a  British  cannon,"  she  began, 
"that  you  should  be  so  fearful." 

His  manhood  was  now  too  deeply  wounded  for  further 
endurance  even  from  her,  for  he  suddenly  straightened  him 
self,  and  throwing  his  rifle  over  his  shoulder,  said  sternly, 
"I'm  not  a  coward.  I  never  hung  back  from  fear,  but  to 
keep  mother  from  charity,  so  I  could  fight  or  die  as  God 
wills.  You  may  laugh  at  the  man  who  never  gave  you 
anything  but  love,  if  you  will,  but  you  shall  never  laugh 
at  my  deeds.  Call  that  boasting  or  not  as  you  please,"  and 
he  turned  on  his  heel  to  depart. 

His  words  and  manner  almost  took  away  the  girl's  breath, 
so  unexpected  were  they,  and  unlike  her  idea  of  the  man. 
In  that  brief  moment  a  fearless  soldier  had  flashed  himself 
upon  her  consciousness,  revealing  a  spirit  that  would  flinch 
at  nothing — that  had  not  even  quailed  at  the  necessity  of  for 
feiting  her  esteem,  that  his  mother  might  not  want.  Hu 
miliated  and  conscience-stricken  that  she  had  done  him  so 
much  injustice,  she  rushed  forward,  crying,  "Stop,  Zebu- 
Ion;  please  do  not  go  away  angry  with  me!  I  do  not  forget 
that  we  have  been  old  friends  and  playmates.  I'm  willing 
to  own  that  I've  been  wrong  about  you,  and  that's  a  good 
deal  for  a  girl  to  do.  I  only  wish  I  were  a  man,  and  I'd  go 
with  you." 

Her  kindness  restored  him  to  his  awkward  self  again, 
and  he  stammered,  "I  wish  you  were — no,  I  don't — I  merely 
stopped,  thinking  you  might  have  a  message;  but  I'd  rather 
not  take  any  to  Zeke  Watkins — will,  though,  if  you  wish. 
It  cut  me  all  up  to  have  you  think  I  was  afraid,"  and  then 
he  became  speechless. 


262  TAKEN    ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

"Bit  you  acted  as  if  you  were  afraid  of  me,  and  that 
seemed  so  ridiculous." 

He  ..ooked  at  her  a  moment  so  earnestly  with  his  dark, 
deep-set  eyes  that  hers  dropped.  "Miss  Susie,"  he  said 
slowly,  and  speaking  with  difficulty,  "I  am  afraid  of  you, 
next  to  God.  I  don't  suppose  I've  any  right  to  talk  to 
you  so,  and  1  will  say  good- by.  1  was  reckless  when  I 
spoke  before.  Perhaps — you'll  go  and  see  mother.  My 
going  is  hard  on  her." 

His  eyes  lingered  on  her  a  moment  longer,  as  if  he  were 
taking  his  last  look,  then  he  turned  slowly  away. 

"Good- by,  Zeb,"  she  called  softly.  "1  didn't — I  don't 
understand.  Yes,  I  will  go  to  see  your  mother." 

Susie  also  watched  him  as  he  strode  away.  He  thought 
he  could  continue  on  steadfastly  without  looking  back,  but 
when  the  road  turned  he  also  turned,  fairly  tugged  right 
about  by  his  loyal  heart.  She  stood  where  he  had  left  her, 
and  promptly  waved  her  hand.  He  doffed  his  cap,  and  re 
mained  a  moment  in  an  attitude  that  appeared  to  her  rever 
ential,  then  passed  out  of  view. 

The  moments  lapsed,  and  still  she  stood  in  the  gateway, 
looking  down  the  vacant  road  as  if  dazed.  Was  it  in  truth 
awkward,  bashful  Zeb  Jarvis  who  bad  just  left  her?  He 
seemed  a  new  and  distinct  being  in  contrast  to  the  youth 
whom  she  had  smiled  at  and  in  a  measure  scoffed  at.  The 
little  Puritan  maiden  was  not  a  reasoner,  but  a  creature  of 
impressions  and  swift  intuitions.  Zeb  had  not  set  his  teeth, 
faced  his  hard  duty,  and  toiled  that  long  summer  in  vain. 
He  had  developed  a  manhood  and  a  force  which  in  one 
brief  moment  had  enabled  him  to  compel  her  recognition. 

"He  will  face  anything,"  she  murmured.  "He's  afraid 
of  only  God  and  me;  what  a  strange  thing  to  say — afraid  of 
me  next  to  God!  Sounds  kind  of  wicked.  What  can 
he  mean?  Zeke  Watkms  wasn't  a  bit  afraid  of  me.  As 
mother  said,  he  was  a  little  forward,  and  I  was  fool  enough 
to  take  him  at  his  own  valuation.  Afraid  of  me!  How  he 
stood  with  his  cap  off  Do  men  ever  love  so?  Is  there  a 


SUSIE   ROLLIFFE'S    CHRISTMAS  263 

kind  of  reverence  in  some  men's  love?  How  absurd  that 
a  great  strong,  brave  man,  ready  to  face  cannons,  can  bow 
down  to  such  a  little — "  Her  fragmentary  exclamations 
ended  in  a  peal  of  laughter,  but  tears  dimmed  her  blue  eyes. 

Susie  did  visit  Mrs.  Jarvis,  and  although  the  reticent 
woman  said  little  about  her  son,  what  she  did  say  meant 
volumes  to  the  girl  who  now  had  the  right  clew  in  inter 
preting  his  action  and  character.  She  too  was  reticent. 
New  England  girls  rarely  gushed  in  those  days,  so  no  one 
knew  she  was  beginning  to  understand.  Her  eyes,  experi 
enced  in  country  work,  were  quick,  and  her  mind  active. 
"It  looks  as  if  a  giant  had  been  wrestling  with  this  stony 
farm,"  she  muttered. 

Zeb  received  no  ovations  on  his  lonely  tramp  to  the 
lines,  and  the  vision  of  Susie  Rolliffe  waving  her  hand 
from  the  gateway  would  have  blinded  him  to  all  the  bright 
and  admiring  eyes  in  the  world.  He  was  hospitably  enter 
tained,  however,  when  there  was  occasion;  but  the  advent 
of  men  bound  for  the  army  had  become  an  old  story.  Hav 
ing  at  last  inquired  his  way  to  the  position  occupied  by  the 
Connecticut  troops,  he  was  assigned  to  duty  in  the  same 
company  with  Zeke  Watkins,  who  gave  him  but  a  cool  re 
ception,  and  sought  to  overawe  him  by  veteran-like  airs. 
At  first  poor  Zeb  was  awkward  enough  in  his  unaccus 
tomed  duties,  and  no  laugh  was  so  scornful  as  that  of  his 
rival.  Young  Jarvis,  however,  had  not  been  many  days  in 
camp  before  he  guessed  that  Zeke's  star  was  not  in  the  as 
cendant.  There  was  but  little  fighting  required,  but  much 
digging  of  intrenchments,  drill,  and  monotonous  picket  duty. 
Zeke  did  not  take  kindly  to  such  tasks,  and  shirked  them 
when  possible.  He  was  becoming  known  as  the  champion 
grumbler  in  the  mess,  and  no  one  escaped  his  criticism,  not 
even  "Old  Put" — as  General  Putnam,  who  commanded  the 
Connecticut  quota,  was  called.  Jarvis,  on  the  other  hand, 
performed  his  military  duties  as  he  had  worked  the  farm, 
and  rapidly  acquired  the  bearing  of  a  soldier.  Indomitable 
Putnam  gave  his  men  little  rest,  and  was  ever  seeking  to 


264  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

draw  his  lines  nearer  to  Boston  and  the  enemy's  ships.  He 
virtually  fought  with  pick  and  shovel,  and  his  working  par- 
ties  were  often  exposed  to  fire  while  engaged  in  fortifying 
the  positions  successively  occupied.  The  Opinquake  boys 
regarded  themselves  as  well  seasoned  to  such  rude  compli 
ments,  and  were  not  a  little  curious  to  see  how  Zeb  would 
handle  a  shovel  with  cannon-balls  whizzing  uncomfortably 
near.  The  opportunity  soon  came.  Old  Put  himself  could 
not  have  been  more  coolly  oblivious  than  the  raw  recrr.it. 
At  last  a  ball  smashed  his  shovel  to  smithereens;  he  quietly 
procured  another  and  went  on  with  his  work.  Then  his  for 
mer  neighbors  gave  him  a  cheer,  while  his  captain  clapped 
him  on  the  shoulder  and  said,  "Promote  you  to  be  a  veteran 
on  the  spot!" 

The  days  had  grown  shorter,  colder,  and  drearier,  and 
the  discomforts  of  camp- life  harder  to  endure.  There  were 
few  tents  even  for  the  officers,  and  the  men  were  compelled 
to  improvise  such  shelter  as  circumstances  permitted.  Huts 
of  stone,  wood,  and  brush,  and  barricades  against  the  wind, 
lined  the  hillside,  and  the  region  already  was  denuded  of 
almost  everything  that  would  burn.  Therefore,  when  De 
cember  came,  Zeke  Watkins  found  that  even  a  fire  was  a 
luxury  not  to  be  had  without  trouble.  He  had  become 
thoroughly  disgusted  with  a  soldier's  life,  and  the  military 
glory  which  had  at  first  so  dazzled  him  now  wore  the  aspect 
of  the  wintry  sky.  He  had  recently  sought  and  attained 
the  only  promotion  for  which  his  captain  now  deemed  him 
fitted — that  of  cook  for  about  a  dozen  of  his  comrades;  and 
the  close  of  the  December  day  found  him  preparing  the 
meagre  supper  which  the  limited  rations  permitted.  By 
virtue  of  his  office,  Zeke  was  one  of  the  best-fed  men  in 
the  army,  for  if  there  were  any  choice  morsels  he  could 
usually  manage  to  secure  them;  still,  he  was  not  happy. 
King  George  and  Congress  were  both  pursuing  policies  in 
consistent  with  his  comfort,  and  he  sighed  more  and  more 
frequently  for  the  wide  kitchen-hearth  of  his  home,  which 
was  within  easy  visiting  distance  of  the  Kolliffe  farmhouse. 


SUSIE   ROLLIFFE'S    CHRISTMAS  265 

His  term  of  enlistment  expired  soon,  and  he  was  already 
counting  the  days.  He  was  not  alone  in  his  discontent,  for 
there  was  much  homesickness  and  disaffection  among  the 
Connecticut  troops.  Many  had  already  departed,  unwilling 
to  stay  an  hour  after  the  expiration  of  their  terms;  and  not 
a  few  had  anticipated  the  periods  which  legally  released  them 
from  duty.  The  organization  of  the  army  was  so  loose  that 
neither  appeals  nor  threats  had  much  influence,  and  Wash 
ington,  in  deep  solicitude,  saw  his  troops  melting  away. 

It  was  dark  by  the  time  the  heavy  tramp  of  the  working 
party  was  heard  returning  from  the  fortifications.  The  great 
mess- pot,  partly  filled  with  pork  and  beans,  was  bubbling 
over  the  fire;  Zeke,  shifting  his  position  from  time  to  time 
to  avoid  the  smoke  which  the  wind,  as  if  it  had  a  spite 
against  him,  blew  in  his  face,  was  sourly  contemplating  his 
charge  and  his  lot,  bent  on  grumbling  to  the  others  with 
even  greater  gusto  than  he  had  complained  to  himself.  His 
comrades  carefully  put  away  their  intrenching  tools,  for  they 
were  held  responsible  for  them,  and  then  gathered  about  the 
fire,  clamoring  for  supper. 

"Zeke,  you  lazy  loon,"  cried  Nat  Atkinson,  "how  many 
pipes  have  you  smoked  to-day  ?  If  you'd  smoke  less  and 
forage  and  dun  the  commissary  more,  we'd  have  a  little 
fresh  meat  once  in  a  hundred  years." 

"Yes,  just  about  once  in  a  hundred  years!"  snarled 
Zeke. 

"  You  find  something  to  keep  fat  on,  anyhow.  We'll 
broil  you  some  cold  night.  Trot  out  your  beans  if  there's 
nothing  else." 

"Growl  away,"  retorted  Zeke.  "  'Twon't  be  long  be 
fore  I'll  be  eating  chickens  and  pumpkin-pie  in  Opin- 
quake,  instead  of  cooking  beans  and  rusty  pork  for  a  lot 
of  hungry  wolves." 

"You'd  be  the  hungriest  wolf  of  the  lot  if  you'd  'a'  been 
picking  and  shovelling  frozen  ground  all  day." 

"I  didn't  'list  to  be  a  ditch- digger  1"  said  Zeke.  "I 
thought  I  was  going  to  be  a  soldier." 

12— EOK— XI 


266  TAKEN   AL1V&    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

"And  you  turned  out  a  cook!"  quietly  remarked  Zeb 
Jarvis. 

"Well,  my  hero  of  the  smashed  shovel,  what  do  you  ex 
pect  to  be — Old  Pat's  successor  ?  You  know,  fellows,  it's 
settled  that  you're  to  dig  your  way  into  Boston,  tunnel  un 
der  the  water  when  you  come  to  it.  Of  course  Put  will  die 
of  old  age  before  you  get  half  there.  Zeb '11  be  the  chap  of 
all  others  to  command  a  division  of  shovellers.  I  see  you 
with  a  pickaxe  strapped  on  your  side  instead  of  a  sword. ' ' 

"Lucky  I'm  not  in  command  now,"  replied  Zeb,  "or 
you'd  shovel  dirt  under  fire  to  the  last  hour  of  your  enlist 
ment.  I'd  give  grumblers  like  you  something  to  grumble 
about.  See  here,  fellows,  I'm  sick  of  this  seditious  talk  in 
our  mess.  The  Connecticut  men  are  getting  to  be  the  talk 
of  the  army.  You  heard  a  squad  of  New  Hampshire  boys 
jeer  at  us  to-day,  and  ask,  'When  are  ye  going  home  to 
mother  ?'  You  ask,  Zeke  Watkins,  what  I  expect  to  be. 
I  expect  to  be  a  soldier,  and  obey  orders  as  long  as  Old 
Put  and  General  Washington  want  a  man.  All  I  ask  is  to 
be  home  summers  long  enough  to  keep  mother  and  the  chil 
dren  off  the  town.  Now  what  do  you  expect  to  be  after  you 
give  up  your  cook's  ladle  ?" 

"None  o'  your  business." 

"He's  going  home  to  court  Susie  Rolliffe,"  cried  Nat 
Atkinson.  "They'll  be  married  in  the  spring,  and  go  into 
the  chicken  business.  That'd  just  suit  Zeke." 

"It  would  not  suit  Susie  Eolliffe,"  said  Zeb,  hotly.  "A 
braver,  better  girl  doesn't  breathe  in  the  colonies,  and  the 
man  that  says  a  slurring  word  against  her's  got  to  fight  me. " 

"What!  Has  she  given  Zeke  the  mitten  for  your  sake, 
Zeb  ?' '  piped  little  Hiram  Woodbridge. 

"She  hasn't  given  me  anything,  and  I've  got  no  claim; 
but  she  is  the  kind  of  girl  that  every  fellow  from  Opinquake 
should  stand  up  for.  We  all  know  that  there  is  nothing 
chicken-hearted  about  her." 

"Right,  by  George — George  W.,  I  mean,  and  not  the 
king,"  responded  Hiram  Woodbridge.  "Here's  to  her 


SUSIE   ROLLIFFE'S    CHRISTMAS  267 

health,  Zeb,  and  your  success!  I  believe  she'd  rather 
marry  a  soldier  than  a  cook." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Zeb.  "You  stand  as  good  a  chance 
as  I  do;  but  don't  let's  bandy  her  name  about  in  camp  any 
more'n  we  would  our  mother's.  The  thing  for  us  to  do 
now  is  to  show  that  the  men  from  Connecticut  have  as 
much  backbone  as  any  other  fellows  in  the  army,  North  or 
South.  Zeke  may  laugh  at  Old  Put's  digging,  but  you'll 
soon  find  that  he'll  pick  his  way  to  a  point  where  he  can 
give  the  Britishers  a  dig  under  the  fifth  rib.  We've  got 
the  best  general  in  the  army.  Washington,  with  all  his 
Southern  style,  believes  in  him  and  relies  on  him.  Whether 
their  time's  up  or  not,  it's  a  burning  shame  that  so  many  of 
his  troops  are  sneaking  off  home." 

"It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  talk,  Zeb  Jarvis,"  growled 
Zeke.  "You  haven't  been  here  very  long  yet;  and  you 
stayed  at  home  when  others  started  out  to  fight.  Now  that 
you've  found  that  digging  and  not  fighting  is  the  order  of 
the  day,  you're  just  suited.  It's  the  line  of  soldiering  you 
are  cut  out  for.  When  fighting  men  and  not  ditch-diggers 
are  wanted,  you'll  find  me — " 

"All  right,  Watkins,"  said  the  voice  of  Captain  Dean 
from  without  the  circle  of  light.  "According  to  your  own 
story  you  are  just  the  kind  of  man  needed  to-night — no 
ditch-digging  on  hand,  but  dangerous  service.  I  detail 
you,  for  you've  had  rest  compared  with  the  other  men.  I 
ask  for  volunteers  from  those  who've  been  at  work  all  day.'* 

Zeb  Jarvis  was  on  his  feet  instan'tly,  and  old  Ezra  Stokes 
also  began  to  rise  with  difficulty.  "No,  Stokes,"  resumed 
the  officer,  "you  can't  go.  I  know  you've  suffered  with 
the  rheumatism  all  day,  and  have  worked  well  in  spite  of 
it.  For  to-night's  work  I  want  young  fellows  with  good 
legs  and  your  spirit.  How  is  it  you're  here  anyhow 
Stokee?  Your  time's  up." 

"We  ain't  into  Boston  yet,"  was  the  quiet  reply. 

"So  you  want  to  stay  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 


268  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

"Then  you  shall  cook  for  the  men  till  you're  better.  I 
won't  keep  so  good  a  soldier,  though,  at  such  work  any 
longer  than  I  can  help.  Your  good  example  and  that  of 
the  gallant  Watkins  has  brought  out  the  whole  squad.  I 
think  I'll  put  Jarvis  in  command,  though;  Zeke  might  be 
rash,  and  attempt  the  capture  of  Boston  before  morning;" 
and  the  facetious  captain,  who  had  once  been  a  neighbor, 
concluded,  "Jarvis,  see  that  every  man's  piece  is  primed 
and  ready  for  use.  Be  at  my  hut  in  fifteen  minutes." 
Then  he  passed  on  to  the  other  camp-fires. 

In  a  few  minutes  Ezra  Stokes  was  alone  by  the  fire,  al 
most  roasting  his  lame  leg,  and  grumbling  from  pain  and 
the  necessity  of  enforced  inaction.  He  was  a  taciturn, 
middle-age  man,  and  had  been  the  only  bachelor  of  ma 
ture  years  in  Opinquake.  Although  he  rarely  said  much, 
he  had  been  a  great  listener,  and  no  one  had  been  better 
versed  in  neighborhood  affairs.  In  brief,  he  had  been  the 
village  cobbler,  and  had  not  only  taken  the  measure  of 
Susie  Rolliffe's  little  foot,  but  also  of  her  spirit.  Like  her 
self  he  had  been  misled  at  first  by  the  forwardness  of  Zeke 
Watkins  and  the  apparent  backwardness  of  Jarvis.  Actual 
service  had  changed  his  views  very  decidedly.  When  Zeb 
appeared  he  had  watched  the  course  of  this  bashful  suitor 
with  interest  which  had  rapidly  ripened  into  warm  but  un 
demonstrative  goodwill.  The  young  fellow  had  taken 
pains  to  relieve  the  older  man,  had  carried  his  tools  for 
him,  and  more  than  once  with  his  strong  hands  had  almost 
rubbed  the  rheumatism  out  of  the  indomitable  cobbler's  leg. 
He  had  received  but  slight  thanks,  and  had  acted  as  if  he 
didn't  care  for  any.  Stokes  was  not  a  man  to  return  favors 
in  words;  be  brooded  over  his  gratitude  as  if  it  were  a 
grudge.  "I'll  get  even  with  that  young  Jarvis  yet,"  he 
muttered,  as  he  nursed  his  leg  over  the  fire.  "I  know  he 
worships  the  ground  that  little  Rolliffe  girl  treads  on, 
though  she  don't  tread  on  much  at  a  time.  She  never  trod 
on  me  nuther,  though  I've  had  her  foot  in  my  hand  more'n 
once.  She  looked  at  the  man  that  made  her  shoes  as  if  she 


SUSIE   ROLLIFFE'S    CHRISTMAS  269 

would  like  to  make  him  happier.  When  a  little  tot,  she  used 
to  say  I  could  come  and  live  with  her  when  I  got  too  old  to 
take  care  of  myself.  Lame  as  I  be,  I'd  walk  to  Opinquake 
to  give  her  a  hint  in  her  choosin'.  Guess  Hi  Woodbridge 
is  right,  and  she  wouldn't  be  long  in  making  up  her  mind 
betwixt  a  soger  and  a  cook — a  mighty  poor  one  at  that. 
Somehow  or  nuther  I  must  let  her  know  before  Zeke  Wat- 
kins  sneaks  home  and  parades  around  as  a  soldier  'bove 
ditch-digging.  I've  taken  his  measure. 

"He'll  be  putting  on  veteran  airs,  telling  big  stories  of 
what  he's  going  to  do  when  soldiers  are  wanted,  and  drill 
ing  such  fools  as  believe  in  him.  Young  gals  are  often 
taken  by  such  strutters,  and  think  that  men  like  Jarvis, 
who  darsn't  speak  for  themselves,  are  of  no  account  But 
I'll  put  a  spoke  in  Zeke's  wheel,  if  I  have  to  get  the  cap 
tain  to  write." 

It  thus  may  be  gathered  that  the  cobbler  had  much 
to  say  to  himself  when  alone,  though  so  taciturn  to 
others. 

The  clouds  along  the  eastern  horizon  were  stained  with 
red  before  the  reconnoitring  party  returned.  Stokes  had 
managed,  by  hobbling  about,  to  keep  up  the  fire  and  to  fill 
the  mess-kettle  with  the  inevitable  pork  and  beans.  The 
hungry,  weary  men  therefore  gave  their  new  cook  a  cheer 
when  they  saw  the  good  fire  and  provision  awaiting  them. 
A  moment  later,  however,  Jarvis  observed  how  lame  Stokes 
had  become;  he  took  the  cobbler  by  the  shoulder  and  sat 
him  down  in  the  warmest  nook,  saying,  "I'll  be  assistant 
cook  until  you  are  better.  As  Zeke  says,  I'm  a  wolf  sure 
enough;  but  as  soon's  the  beast's  hunger  is  satisfied,  I'll 
rub  that  leg  of  yours  till  you'll  want  to  dance  a  jig;"  and 
with  the  ladle  wrung  from  Stokes's  reluctant  hand,  he  be 
gan  stirring  the  seething  contents  of  the  kettle. 

Then  little  Hi  Woodbridge  piped  in  his  shrill  voice, 
"Another  cheer  for  our  assistant  cook  and  d itch- digger ! 
I  say,  Zeke,  wouldn't  you  like  to  tell  Erza  that  Zeb  has 
showed  himself  fit  for  something  more  than  digging?  You 


270  TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND   OTHER   STORIES 

expressed  your  opinion  very  plain  last  night,  and  may  have 
a  different  one  now. ' ' 

Zeke  growld  something  inaudible,  and  stalked  to  his  hut 
in  order  to  put  away  his  equipments. 

"I'm  cook-in-chief  yet,"  Stokes  declared;  "and  not  a 
bean  will  any  one  of  you  get  till  you  report  all  that 
happened." 

"Well,"  piped  Hi,  "you  may  stick  a  feather  in  your  old 
cap,  Ezra,  for  our  Opinquake  lad  captured  a  British  officer 
last  night,  and  Old  Put  is  pumping  him  this  blessed  minute." 

"Well,  well,  that  is  news.  It  must  have  been  Zeke  who 
did  that  neat  job,"  exclaimed  Stokes,  ironically;  "he's  been 
a- pining  for  the  soldier  business." 

"No,  no;  Zeke's  above  such  night  scrimmages.  He 
wants  to  swim  the  bay  and  walk  right  into  Boston  in  broad 
daylight,  so  everybody  can  see  him.  Come,  Zeb,  tell  how 
it  happened.  It  was  so  confounded  dark,  no  one  can  tell 
but  you." 

"There  isn't  much  to  tell  that  you  fellows  don't  know," 
was  Zeb's  laconic  answer.  "We  had  sneaked  down  on  the 
neck  so  close  to  the  enemy's  lines — " 

"Yes,  yes,  Zeb  Jarvis,"  interrupted  Stokes,  "that's  the 
kind  of  sneaking  you're  up  to — close  to  the  enemy's  lines. 
Goon." 

"  Well,  I  crawled  up  so  close  that  I  saw  a  Britisher  going 
the  round  of  the  sentinels,  and  I  pounced  on  him  and 
brought  him  out  on  the  run,  that's  all." 

"Oho!  you  both  ran  away,  then?  That  wasn't  good 
soldiering  either,  was  it,  Zeke  ?' '  commented  Stokes,  in  his 
dry  way. 

"It's  pretty  good  soldiering  to  stand  fire  within  an  inch 
of  your  nose,"  resumed  Hi,  who  had  become  a  loyal  friend 
and  adherent  of  his  tall  comrade.  "Zeb  was  so  close  on  the 
Britisher  when  he  fired  his  pistol  that  we  saw  the  faces  of 
both  in  the  flash;  and  a  lot  of  bullets  sung  after  us,  I  can 
tell  you,  as  we  dusted  out  of  those  diggin's. " 

"Compliments  of  General  Putnam  to  Sergeant  Zebulon 


SUSIE    ROLLIFFE'S    CHRISTMAS  271 

Jarvis, '  said  an  orderly,  riding  out  of  the  dim  twilight 
of  the  morning.  "The  general  requests  your  presence  at 
headquarters. ' ' 

"Sergeant!  promoted!  Another  cheer  for  Zeb!"  and 
the  Opinquake  boys  gave  it  with  hearty  goodwill. 

"Jerusalem,  fellows!  I'd  like  to  have  a  chance  at  those 
beans  before  I  go!"  but  Zeb  promptly  tramped  off  with  the 
orderly. 

When  he  returned  he  was  subjected  to  a  fire  of  questions 
by  the  two  or  three  men  still  awake,  but  all  they  could  get 
out  of  him  was  that  he  had  been  given  a  good  breakfast. 
From  Captain  Dean,  who  was  with  the  general  at  the  time 
of  the  examination,  it  leaked  out  that  Zeb  was  in  the  line  of 
promotion  to  a  rank  higher  than  that  of  sergeant. 

The  next  few  days  passed  uneventfully;  and  Zeke  was 
compelled  to  resume  the  pick  and  shovel  again.  Stokes  did 
his  best  to  fulfil  his  duties,  but  it  had  become  evident  to  all 
that  the  exposure  of  camp  would  soon  disable  him  utterly. 
Jarvis  and  Captain  Dean  persuaded  him  to  go  home  for  the 
winter,  and  the  iittle  squad  raised  a  sum  which  enabled  him 
to  make  the  journey  in  a  stage.  Zeke,  sullen  toward  his 
jeering  comrades,  but  immensely  elated  in  secret,  had  shaken 
the  dust — snow  and  slush  rather — of  camp-life  from  his  feet 
the  day  before.  He  had  the  grace  to  wait  till  the  time  of 
his  enlistment  expired,  and  that  was  more  than  could  be  said 
of  many. 

It  spoke  well  for  the  little  Opinquake  quota  that  only 
two  others  besides  Zeke  availed  themselves  of  their  liberty. 
Poor  Stokes  was  almost  forced  away,  consoled  by  the  hope 
of  returning  in  the  spring.  Zeb  was  sore- hearted  on  the 
day  of  Zeke's  departure.  His  heart  was  in  the  Connecticut 
Valley  also.  No  message  had  come  to  him  from  Susie  Rol- 
liffe.  Those  were  not  the  days  of  swift  and  frequent  com 
munication.  Even  Mrs.  Jarvis  had  written  but  seldom,  and 
her  missives  were  brief.  Mother- love  glowed  through  the 
few  quaint  and  scriptural  phrases  like  heat  in  anthracite 
coals.  All  that  poor  Zeb  could  learn  from  them  was  that 


272  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

Susie  Rolliffe  had  kept  her  word  and  had  been  to  the  farm 
more  than  once;  but  the  girl  had  been  as  reticent  as  the 
mother.  Zeke  was  now  on  his  way  home  to  prosecute  his 
suit  in  person,  and  Zeb  well  knew  how  forward  and  plausi 
ble  he  could  be.  There  was  no  deed  of  daring  that  he  would 
not  promise  to  perform  after  spring  opened,  and  Zeb  rea 
soned  gloomily  that  a  present  lover,  impassioned  and  im 
portunate,  would  stand  a  better  chance  than  an  absent  one 
who  had  never  been  able  to  speak  for  himself. 

When  it  was  settled  that  Stokes  should  return  to  Opin- 
quake,  Zeb  determined  that  he  would  not  give  up  the  prize 
to  Zeke  without  one  decisive  effort;  and  as  he  was  rubbing 
the  cobbler's  leg,  he  stammered,  "I  say  Ezra,  will  you  do 
me  a  turn?  'Twon't  be  so  much,  what  I  ask,  except  that 
I'll  like  you  to  keep  mum  about  it,  and  you're  a  good  hand 
at  keeping  mum." 

"I  know  what  yer  driving  at,  Zeb.  Write  yer  letter  and 
I'll  deliver  it  with  my  own  hands." 

"Well,  now,  I'm  satsified,  I  can  stay  on  and  fight  it  out 
with  a  clear  mind.  When  Zeke  marched  away  last  summer, 
I  thought  it  was  all  up  with  me;  and  I  can  tell  you  that  any 
fighting  that's  to  do  about  Boston  will  be  fun  compared  with 
the  fighting  I  did  while  hoeing  corn  and  mowing  grass.  But 
I  don't  believe  that  Susie  Kolliffe  is  promised  to  Zeke  Wat- 
kins,  or  any  one  else  yet,  and  I'm  going  to  give  her  a  chance 
to  refuse  me  plump. ' ' 

"That's  the  way  to  do  it,  Zeb,"  said  the  bachelor  cob 
bler,  with  an  emphasis  that  would  indicate  much  successful 
experience.  "Asking  a  girl  plump  is  like  standing  up  in  a 
fair  fight.  It  gives  the  girl  a  chance  to  bowl  you  over,  if 
that's  her  mind,  so  there  can't  be  any  mistake  about  it;  and 
it  seems  to  me  the  women-folks  ought  to  have  all  the  chances 
that  in  any  way  belong  to  them.  They  have  got  few  enough 
anyhow." 

"And  you  think  it'll  end  in  my  being  bowled  over?" 

"How  should  I  know,  or  you  either,  unless  you  make  a 
square  trial  ?  You're  such  a  strapping,  fighting  feller  that 


SUSIE    ROLLIFFE'S   CHRISTMAS  273 

nothing  but  a  cannon-ball  or  a  woman  ever  will  knock  you 
off  your  pins." 

"See  here,  Ezra  Stokes,  the  girl  of  my  heart  may  refuse 
me  just  as  plump  as  I  offer  myself;  and  if  that's  her  mind 
she  has  a  right  to  do  it.  But  I  don't  want  either  you  or 
her  to  think  I  won't  stand  on  my  feet.  I  won't  even  fight 
any  more  recklessly  than  my  duty  requires.  I  have  a  mother 
to  take  care  of,  even  if  I  never  have  a  wife." 

"I'll  put  in  a  few  pegs  right  along  to  keep  in  mind  what 
you  say;  and  I'll  give  you  a  fair  show  by  seeing  to  it  that 
the  girl  gets  your  letter  before  Zeke  can  steal  a  march  on 
you." 

"That's  all  I  ask,"  said  Zeb,  with  compressed  lips. 
"She  shall  choose  between  us.  It's  hard  enough  to  write, 
but  it  will  be  a  sight  easier  than  facing  her.  Not  a  word 
of  this  to  another  soul,  Ezra;  but  I'm  not  going  to  use  you 
like  a  mail-carrier,  but  a  friend.  After  all,  there  are  few  in 
Opinquake,  I  suppose,  but  know  I'd  give  my  eyes  for  her, 
so  there  isn't  much  use  of  my  putting  on  secret  airs." 

"I'm  not  a  talker,  and  you  might  have  sent  your  letter 
by  a  worse  messenger'  n  me, ' '  was  the  laconic  reply. 

Zeb  had  never  written  a  love-letter,  and  was  at  a  loss 
how  to  begin  or  end  it.  But  time  pressed,  and  he  had  to 
say  what  was  uppermost  in  his  mind.  It  ran  as  follows: 

"I  don't  know  how  to  write  so  as  to  give  my  words  weight.  I  cannot 
come  home ;  I  will  not  come  as  long  as  mother  and  the  children  can  get  on 
without  me.  And  men  are  needed  here ;  men  are  needed.  The  general  fairly 
pleads  with  the  soldiers  to  stay.  Stokes  would  stay  if  he  could.  We're  al 
most  driving  him  home.  I  know  you  will  be  kind  to  him,  and  remember  he 
has  few  to  care  for  him.  I  cannot  speak  for  myself  in  person  very  soon,  if 
ever.  Perhaps  I  could  not  if  I  stood  before  you.  You  laugh  at  me;  but  if 
you  knew  how  I  love  you  and  remember  you,  how  I  honor  and  almost  worship 
you  in  my  heart,  you  might  understand  me  better.  Why  is  it  strange  I  should 
be  afraid  of  you?  Only  God  has  more  power  over  me  than  you.  Will  you  be 
my  wife?  I  will  do  anything  to  win  you  that  you  can  ask.  Others  will  plead 
with  you  in  person.  Will  you  let  this  letter  plead  for  the  absent?" 

Zeb  went  to  the  captain's  quarters  and  got  some  wax 
with  which  to  seal  this  appeal,  then  saw  Stokes  depart  with 
the  feeling  that  his  destiny  was  now  at  stake. 


274  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND   OTHER   STORIES 

Meanwhile  Zeke  Watkins,  with  a  squad  of  homeward- 
bound  soldiers,  was  trudging  toward  Opinquake.  They 
soon  began  to  look  into  one  another's  faces  in  something 
like  dismay.  But  little  provision  was  in  their  wallets  when 
they  had  started,  for  there  was  little  to  draw  upon,  and  that 
furnished  grudgingly,  as  may  well  be  supposed.  Zeke  had 
not  cared.  He  remembered  the  continuous  feasting  that  had 
attended  his  journey  to  camp,  and  supposed  that  he  would 
only  have  to  present  himself  to  the  roadside  farmhouses  in 
order  to  enjoy  the  fat  of  the  land.  This  hospitality  he  pro 
posed  to  repay  abundantly  by  camp  reminiscences  in  which 
it  would  not  be  difficult  to  insinuate  that  the  hero  of  the 
scene  was  present. 

In  contrast  to  these  rose-hued  expectations,  doors  were 
slammed  in  their  faces,  and  they  were  treated  little  better 
than  tramps.  "I  suppose  the  people  near  Boston  have  been 
called  on  too  often  and  imposed  on,  too,"  Zeke  reasoned 
rather  ruefully.  "When  we  once  get  over  the  Connecticut 
border  we'll  begin  to  find  ourselves  at  home;"  and  spurred 
by  hunger  and  cold,  as  well  as  hope,  they  pushed  on  des 
perately,  subsisting  on  such  coarse  provisions  as  they  could 
obtain,  sleeping  in  barns  when  it  stormed,  and  not  infre 
quently  by  a  fire  in  the  woods.  At  last  they  passed  the 
Connecticut  border,  and  led  by  Zeke  they  urged  their  way 
to  a  large  farmhouse,  at  which,  but  a  few  months  before,  the 
table  had  groaned  under  rustic  dainties,  and  feather-beds 
had  luxuriously  received  the  weary  recruits  bound  to  the 
front.  They  approached  the  opulent  farm  in  the  dreary 
dark  of  the  evening,  and  pursued  by  a  biting  east  wind 
laden  with  snow.  Not  only  the  weather,  but  the  very  dogs 
seemed  to  have  a  spite  against  them;  and  the  family  had  to 
rush  out  to  call  them  off. 

"Weary  soldiers  ask  for  shelter,"  began  Zeke. 

"Of  course  you're  bound  for  the  lines,"  said  the  ma 
tronly  housewife.  ' '  Come  in. ' ' 

Zeke  thought  they  would  better  enter  at  once  before 
explaining;  and  truly  the  large  kitchen,  with  a  great  lire 


SUSIE   ROLLIFFE'S    CHRISTMAS  275 

blazing  on  the  hearth,  seemed  like  heaven.  The  door  lead 
ing  into  the  family  sitting-room  was  open,  and  there  was 
another  fire,  with  the  red-cheeked  girls  and  the  white-haired 
grandsire  before  it,  their  eyes  turned  expectantly  toward  the 
new-comers.  Instead  of  hearty  welcome,  there  was  a  ques 
tioning  look  on  every  face,  even  on  that  of  the  kite  hen- maid. 
Zeke's  four  companions  had  a  sort  of  hang-dog  look — for 
they  had  been  cowed  by  the  treatment  received  along  the 
road;  but  he  tried  to  bear  himself  confidently,  and  began 
with  an  insinuating  smile,  "Perhaps  I  should  hardly  expect 
you  to  remember  me.  I  passed  this  way  last  summer — " 

"Passed  this  way  last  summer?"  repeated  the  matron, 
her  face  growing  stern.  "We  who  cannot  fight  are  ready 
and  glad  to  share  all  we  have  with  those  who  fight  for  us. 
Since  you  carry  arms  we  might  very  justly  think  you  are 
hastening  forward  to  use  them." 

"These  are  our  own  arms;  we  furnished  them  ourselves," 
Zeke  hastened  to  say. 

"Oh,  indeed,"  replied  the  matron,  coldly;  "I  supposed 
that  not  only  the  weapons,  but  the  ones  who  carry  them, 
belonged  to  the  country.  I  hope  you  are  not  deserting 
from  the  army." 

"I  assure  you  we  are  not.  Our  terms  of  enlistment  have 
expired." 

"And  your  country's  need  was  over  at  the  same  moment  ? 
Are  you  hastening  home  at  this  season  to  plow  and  sow  and 
reap?" 

"Well,  madam,  after  being  away  so  long  we  felt  like 
having  a  little  comfort  and  seeing  the  folks.  We  stayed 
a  long  as  we  agreed.  When  spring  opens,  or  before,  if 
need  be — " 

"Pardon  me,  sir;  the  need  is  now.  The  country  is  not 
to  be  saved  by  men  who  make  bargains  like  day- laborers, 
and  who  quit  when  the  hour  is  up,  but  by  soldiers  who  give 
themselves  to  their  country  as  they  would  to  their  wives  and 
sweethearts.  My  husband  and  sons  are  in  the  army  you  have 
deserted.  General  Washington  has  written  to  our  governor 


276  TAKEN    ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

asking  whether  an  example  should  not  be  made  of  the  men 
who  have  deserted  the  cause  of  their  country  at  this  critical 
time  when  the  enemy  are  receiving  re-enforcements.  We 
are  told  that  Connecticut  men  have  brought  disgrace  on 
our  colony  and  have  imperilled  the  whole  army.  You  feel 
like  taking  comfort  and  seeing  the  folks.  The  folks  do  not 
feel  like  seeing  you.  My  husband  and  the  brave  men  in 
the  lines  are  in  all  the  more  danger  because  of  your  deser 
tion,  for  a  soldier's  time  never  expires  when  the  enemy  is 
growing  stronger  and  threatening  every  home  in  the  land. 
If  all  followed  your  example,  the  British  would  soon  be 
upon  your  heels,  taking  from  us  our  honor  and  our  all. 
We  are  not  ignorant  of  the  critical  condition  of  our  army; 
and  I  can  tell  you,  sir,  that  if  many  more  of  our  men  come 
home,  the  women  will  take  their  places." 

Zeke's  companions  succumbed  to  the  stern  arraignment, 
and  after  a  brief  whispered  consultation  one  spoke  for  the 
rest.  "Madam,"  he  said,  "you  put  it  in  a  way  that  we 
hadn't  realized  before.  We'll  right-about-face  and  march 
back  in  the  morning,  for  we  feel  that  we'd  rather  face  all 
the  British  in  Boston  than  any  more  Connecticut  women." 

"Then,  sirs,  you  shall  have  supper  and  shelter  and  wel 
come,"  was  the  prompt  reply. 

Zeke  assumed  an  air  of  importance  as  he  said:  "There 
are  reasons  why  I  must  be  at  home  for  a  time,  but  I  not  only 
expect  to  return,  but  also  to  take  many  back  with  me." 

"I  trust  your  deeds  may  prove  as  large  as  your  words," 
was  the  chilly  reply;  and  then  he  was  made  to  feel  that  he 
was  barely  tolerated.  Some  hints  from  his  old  associates 
added  to  the  disfavor  which  the  family  took  but  little  pains 
to  conceal.  There  was  a  large  vein  of  selfish  calculation  in 
Zeke's  nature,  and  he  was  not  to  be  swept  away  by  any 
impulses.  He  believed  he  could  have  a  prolonged  visit 
home,  yet  manage  so  admirably  that  when  he  returned  he 
would  be  followed  by  a  squad  of  recruits,  and  chief  of  all 
he  would  be  the  triumphant  suitor  of  Susie  Eolliffe.  Her 
manner  in  parting  had  satisfied  him  that  he  had  made  so 


SUSIE   ROLLIFFE'S   CHRISTMAS  277 

deep  an  impression  that  it  would  be  folly  not  to  follow  it 
up.  He  trudged  the  remainder  of  the  journey  alone,  and 
secured  tolerable  treatment  by  assuring  the  people  that  he 
was  returning  for  recruits  for  the  army.  He  reached  home 
in  the  afternoon  of  Christmas;  and  although  the  day  was 
almost  completely  ignored  in  the  Puritan  household,  yet 
Mrs.  Watkins  forgot  country,  Popery,  and  all,  in  her 
mother  love,  and  Zeke  supped  on  the  finest  turkey  of  the 
flock.  Old  Mr.  Watkins,  it  is  true,  looked  rather  grim,  but 
the  reception  had  been  reassuring  in  the  main;  and  Zeke 
had  resolved  on  a  line  of  tactics  which  would  make  him,  as 
he  believed,  the  military  hero  of  the  town.  After  he  had 
satisfied  an  appetite  which  had  been  growing  ever  since 
he  left  camp,  he  started  to  call  on  Susie  in  all  the  bravery 
of  his  best  attire,  filled  with  sanguine  expectations  inspired 
by  memories  of  the  past  and  recent  potations  of  cider. 

Meanwhile  Susie  had  received  a  guest  earlier  in  the  day. 
The  stage  had  stopped  at  the  gate  where  she  had  stood  in 
the  September  sunshine  and  waved  her  bewildered  farewell 
to  Zeb.  There  was  no  bewilderment  or  surprise  now  at  her 
strange  and  unwonted  sensations.  She  had  learned  why  she 
had  stood  looking  after  him  dazed  and  spellbound.  Under 
the  magic  of  her  own  light  irony  she  had  seen  her  drooping 
rustic  lover  transformed  into  the  ideal  man  who  could  face 
anything  except  her  unkindness.  She  had  guessed  the 
deep  secret  of  his  timidity.  It  was  a  kind  of  fear  of  which 
she  had  not  dreamed,  and  which  touched  her  innermost 
soul. 

When  the  stage  stopped  at  the  gate,  and  she  saw  the 
driver  helping  out  Ezra  Stokes,  a  swift  presentiment  made 
her  sure  that  she  would  hear  from  one  soldier  who  was 
more  to  her  than  all  the  generals.  She  was  soon  down  the 
walk,  the  wind  sporting  in  her  light-gold  hair,  supporting 
the  cobbler  on  the  other  side. 

"Ah,  Miss  Susie!"  he  said,  "I  am  about  worn  out,  sole 
and  upper.  It  breaks  my  heart,  when  men  are  so  sorely 
needed,  to  be  thrown  aside  like  an  old  shoe." 


278  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

The  girl  soothed  and  comforted  him,  ensconced  him  by 
the  fireside,  banishing  the  chill  from  his  heart,  while  Mrs. 
Rolliffe  warmed  his  blood  by  a  strong,  hot  drink.  Then  the 
mother  hastened  away  to  get  dinner,  while  Susie  sat  down 
near,  nervously  twisting  and  untwisting  her  fingers,  with 
questions  on  her  lips  which  she  dared  not  utter,  but  which 
brought  blushes  to  her  cheeks.  Stokes  looked  at  her  and 
sighed  over  his  lost  youth,  yet  smiled  as  he  thought:  "Guess 
I'll  get  even  with  that  Zeb  Jarvis  to-day."  Then  he  asked, 
"Isn't  there  any  one  you  would  like  to  hear  about  in  camp?" 

She  blushed  deeper  still,  and  named  every  one  who  had 
gone  from  Opinquake  except  Zeb.  At  last  she  said  a  little 
ironically:  "I  suppose  Ezekiel  Watkins  is  almost  thinking 
about  being  a  general  about  this  time  ?" 

"Hasn't  he  been  here  telling  you  what  he  is  thinking 
about?" 

"Been  here!     Do  you  mean  to  say  he  has  come  home?" 

"He  surely  started  for  home.  All  the  generals  and  a 
yoke  of  oxen  couldn't  'a'  kept  him  in  camp,  he  was  so 
homesick — lovesick  too,  I  guess.  Powerful  compliment  to 
you,  Miss  Susie,"  added  the  politic  cobbler,  feeling  his 
way,  "that  you  could  draw  a  man  straight  from  his  duty 
like  one  of  these  'ere  stump-extractors." 

"No  compliment  to  me  at  all!"  cried  the  girl,  indig 
nantly.  "He  little  understands  me  who  seeks  my  favor  by 
coming  home  at  a  time  like  this.  The  Connecticut  women 
are  up  in  arms  at  the  way  our  men  are  coming  home.  No 
offence  to  you,  Mr.  Stokes.  You're  sick,  and  should  come; 
but  I'd  like  to  go  myself  to  show  some  of  the  strong  young 
fellows  what  we  think  of  them." 

"Coming  home  was  worse  than  rheumatism  to  me,  and 
I'm  going  back  soon  's  I  kin  walk  without  a  cane.  Wouldn't 
'a'  come  as  'tis,  if  that  Zeb  Jarvis  hadn't  jes'  packed  me  off. 
By  Jocks !  I  thought  you  and  he  was  acquainted,  but  you 
don't  seem  to  ask  arter  him." 

"I  felt  sure  he  would  try — I  heard  he  was  doing  his 
duty,"  she  replied  with  averted  face. 


SUSJE   ROLLIFFE'S   CHRISTMAS  279 

"Zeke  Watkins  says  he's  no  soldier  at  all — nothing  but 
a  dirt- digger." 

For  a  moment,  as  the  cobbler  had  hoped,  Susie  forgot 
her  blushes  and  secret  in  her  indignation.  "Zeke  Watkins 
indeed!"  she  exclaimed.  "He'd  better  not  tell  me  any  such 
story.  1  don't  believe  there's  a  braver,  truer  man  in  the — 
Well,"  she  added  in  sudden  confusion,  "he  hasn't  run  away 
and  left  others  to  dig  their  way  into  Boston,  if  that's  the 
best  way  of  getting  there." 

"Ah,  I'm  going  to  get  even  with  him  yet,"  chuckled 
Stokes  to  himself.  "Digging  is  only  the  first  step,  Miss 
Susie.  When  Old  Put  gets  good  and  ready,  you'll  hear  the 
thunder  of  the  guns  a'most  in  Opinquake." 

"Well,  Mr.  Stokes,"  stammered  Susie,  resolving  des 
perately  on  a  short  cut  to  the  knowledge  she  craved, 
"you've  seen  Mr.  Jarvis  a-soldiering.  What  do  you  think 
about  it?" 

"Well,  now,  that  Zeb  Jarvis  is  the  sneakin'ist  fel 
low—" 

"What?"  cried  the  girl,  her  face  aflame. 

"Wait  till  I  get  in  a  few  more  pegs,"  continued  Stokes, 
coolly.  "The  other  night  he  sneaked  right  into  the  enemy's 
lines  and  carried  off  a  British  officer  as  a  hawk  takes  a 
chicken.  The  Britisher  fired  his  pistol  right  under  Zeb's 
nose;  but,  law!  he  didn't  mind  that  any  more'n  a  'sketer- 
bite.  I  call  that  soldiering,  don't  you  ?  Anyhow,  Old  Put 
thought  it  was,  and  sent  for  him  'fore  daylight,  and  made 
a  sergeant  of  him.  If  I  had  as  good  a  chance  of  gettin'  rid 
of  the  rheumatiz  as  he  has  of  bein'  captain  in  six  months, 
I'd  thank  the  Lord." 

Susie  sat  up  very  straight,  and  tried  to  look  severely 
judicial;  but  her  lip  was  quivering  and  her  whole  plump 
little  form  trembling  with  excitement  and  emotion.  Sud 
denly  she  dropped  her  face  in  her  hands  and  cried  in  a  gust 
of  tears  and  laughter:  "He's  just  like  grandfather;  he'd 
face  anything!" 

"Anything  in  the  'tarnal  uinverse,  1  guess,  'cept  you, 


280  TAKEN    ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

Miss  Susie.  I  seed  a  cannon-ball  smash  a  shovel  in  his 
hands,  and  he  got  another,  and  went  on  with  his  work  cool 
as  a  cucumber.  Then  I  seed  him  writin'  a  letter  to  you, 
and  his  hand  trembled — " 

"A  letter  to  me!"  cried  the  girl,  springing  up. 

"Yes;  'ere  it  is.  I  was  kind  of  pegging  around  till  I  got 
to  that;  and  you  know—" 

But  Susie  was  reading,  her  hands  trembling  so  she  could 
scarcely  hold  the  paper.  "It's  about  you,"  she  faltered, 
making  one  more  desperate  effort  at  self-preservation. 
"He  says  you'd  stay  if  you  could;  that  they  almost  drove 
you  home.  And  he  asks  that  I  be  kind  to  you,  because 
there  are  not  many  to  care  for  you — and — and — " 

"Oh,  Lord!  never  can  get  even  with  that  Zeb  Jar  vis," 
groaned  Ezra.  "But  you  needn't  tell  me  that's  all  the 
letter's  about." 

Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  yet  not  so  full  but  that  she 
saw  the  plain,  closing  words  in  all  their  significance. 
Swiftly  the  letter  went  to  her  lips,  then  was  thrust  into  her 
bosom,  and  she  seized  the  cobbler's  hand,  exclaiming: 
"Yes,  I  will!  I  will!  You  shall  stay  with  us,  and  be 
one  of  us!"  and  in  her  excitement  she  put  her  left  hand 
caressingly  on  his  shoulder. 

"Susan!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Rollifte,  who  entered  at  that 
moment,  and  looked  aghast  at  the  scene. 

"Yes,  I  will!"  exclaimed  Susie,  too  wrought  up  now  for 
restraint. 

"Will  what?"  gasped  the  mother. 

"Be  Zebulon  Jarvis's  wife.  He's  asked  me  plump  and 
square  like  a  soldier;  and  I'll  answer  as  grandma  did,  and 
like  grandma  I'll  face  anything  for  his  sake." 

"  Well,  this  is  suddent!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Rolliffe,  drop 
ping  into  a  chair.  "Susan,  do  you  think  it  is  becoming  and 
seemly  for  a  young  woman — ' ' 

"Oh,  mother  dear,  there's  no  use  of  your  trying  to  make 
a  prim  Puritan  maiden  of  me.  Zeb  doesn't  fight  like  a 
deacon,  and  I  can't  love  like  one.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  to  think 


SUSIE   ROLLIFFE'S    CHRISTMAS  281 

that  great  soldier  is  afraid  of  little  me,  and  nothing  else! 
It's  too  funny  and  heavenly — " 

"Susan,  I  am  dumfounded  at  your  behavior!" 

At  this  moment  Mr.  Rolliffe  came  in  from  the  wood-lot, 
and  he  was  dazed  by  the  wonderful  news  also.  In  his  eager 
ness  to  get  even  with  Zeb,  the  cobbler  enlarged  and  expa 
tiated  till  he  was  hoarse.  When  he  saw  that  the  parents 
were  almost  as  proud  as  the  daughter  over  their  prospective 
son-in-law,  he  relapsed  into  his  old  taciturnity,  declaring  he 
had  talked  enough  for  a  month. 

Susie,  the  only  child,  who  apparently  had  inherited  all 
the  fire  and  spirit  of  her  fighting  ancestors,  darted  out,  and 
soon  returned  with  her  rosebud  of  a  face  enveloped  in  a 
great  calyx  of  a  woollen  hood. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  exclaimed  her  parents. 

"You've  had  the  news.  I  guess  Mother  Jar  vis  has  the 
next  right. "  And  she  was  off  over  the  hills  with  almost 
the  lightness  and  swiftness  of  a  snowbird. 

In  due  time  Zeke  appeared,  and  smiled  encouragingly 
on  Mrs.  Rolliffe,  who  sat  knitting  by  the  kitchen  fire.  The 
matron  did  not  rise,  and  gave  him  but  a  cool  salutation. 
He  discussed  the  coldness  of  the  weather  awkwardly  for 
a  few  moments,  and  then  ventured:  "Is  Miss  Susan  at 
home?" 

"No,  sir,"  replied  Mrs.  Rolliffe;  "she's  gone  to  make  a 
visit  to  her  mother-in-law  that  is  to  be,  the  Widow  Jarvis. 
Ezra  Stokes  is  sittin'  in  the  next  room,  sent  home  sick. 
Perhaps  you'd  like  to  talk  over  camp-life  with  him." 

Not  even  the  cider  now  sustained  Zeke.  He  looked  as 
if  a  cannon-ball  had  wrecked  all  his  hopes  and  plans  instead 
of  a  shovel.  "Good- evening,  Mrs.  Rolliffe,"  he  stammered; 
"I  guess  I'll—I'll— go  home." 

Poor  Mrs.  Jarvis  had  a  spiritual  conflict  that  day  which 
she  never  forgot.  Susie's  face  had  flashed  at  the  window 
near  which  she  had  sat  spinning,  and  sighing  perhaps  that 
Nature  had  not  provided  feathers  or  fur  for  a  brood  like 
hers;  then  the  girl's  arms  were  about  her  neck,  the  news 


282  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

was  stammered  out — for  the  letter  could  never  be  shown  to 
any  one — in  a  way  that  tore  primness  to  tatters.  The  widow 
tried  to  act  as  if  it  were  a  dispensation  of  Providence  which 
should  be  received  in  solemn  gratitude;  but  before  she  knew 
it  she  was  laughing  and  crying,  kissing  her  sweet-faced 
daughter,  or  telling  how  good  and  brave  Zeb  had  been 
when  his  heart  was  almost  breaking. 

Compunction  had  already  seized  upon  the  widow. 
"Susan,"  she  began,  "I  fear  we  are  not  mortifyin'  the 
flesh  as  we  ought — " 

"No  mortifying  just  yet,  if  you  please,"  cried  Susie. 
"The  most  important  thing  of  all  is  yet  to  be  done.  Zeb 
hasn't  heard  the  news;  just  think  of  it!  You  must  write 
and  tell  him  that  I'll  help  you  spin  the  children's  clothes 
and  work  the  farm;  that  we'll  face  everything  in  Opinquake 
as  long  as  Old  Put  needs  men.  Where  is  the  ink-horn? 
I'll  sharpen  a  pen  for  you  and  one  for  me,  and  such  news 
as  he'll 'get!  Wish  I  could  tell  him,  though,  and  see  the 
great  fellow  tremble  once  more.  Afraid  of  me !  Ha !  ha ! 
ha!  that's  the  funniest  thing —  Why,  Mother  Jarvis,  this 
is  Christmas  Day!" 

"So  it  is,"  said  the  widow,  in  an  awed  tone.  "Susie, 
my  heart  misgives  me  that  all  this  should  have  happened 
on  a  day  of  which  Popery  has  made  so  much. ' ' 

"No,  no,"  cried  the  girl.  "Thank  God  it  is  Christmas! 
and  hereafter  I  shall  keep  Christmas  as  long  as  love  is  love 
and  God  is  good. ' ' 


JEFF'S    TREASURE 


CHAPTER  I 

ITS     DISCOVERY 

JEFF,  the  hero  of  my  tale,  was  as  truly  a  part  of  the 
Southern  Confederacy  as  the  greater  Jeff  at  Rich- 
mond.  Indeed,  were  it  not  for  the  humbler  Jeff  and 
the  class  he  represented,  the  other  Jeff  would  never  have 
attained  his  eminence. 

Jeff's  prospects  were  as  dark  as  himself.  He  owned 
nothing,  not  even  himself,  yet  his  dream  of  riches  is  the 
motive  of  my  tale.  Regarded  as  a  chattel,  for  whom  a  bill 
of  sale  would  have  been  made  as  readily  as  for  a  bullock, 
he  proved  himself  a  man  and  brother  by  a  prompt  exhibi 
tion  of  traits  too  common  to  human  nature  when  chance 
and  some  heroism  on  his  part  gave  into  his  hands  the 
semblance  of  a  fortune. 

Jeff  was  a  native  Virginian  and  belonged  to  an  F.  F.  V. 
in  a  certain  practical,  legel  sense  which  thus  far  had  not 
greatly  disturbed  his  equanimity.  His  solid  physique  and 
full  shining  face  showed  that  slavery  had  brought  no  hor 
rors  into  his  experience.  He  had  indulged,  it  is  true,  in 
vague  yearnings  for  freedom,  but  these  had  been  checked 
by  hearing  that  liberty  meant  "working  for  Yankees" — ap 
palling  news  to  an  indolent  soul.  He  was  house-servant 
and  man-of-all-work  in  a  family  whose  means  had  always 
been  limited,  and  whose  men  were  in  the  Confederate  army. 
His  "missus"  evinced  a  sort  of  weary  content  when  he  had 
been  scolded  or  threatened  into  the  completion  of  his  tasks 
by  nightfall.  He  then  gave  her  and  her  daughters  some 

(283) 


284  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

compensation  for  their  trials  with  him  by  producing  his 
fiddle  and  making  the  warm  summer  evening  resonant  with 
a  kind  of  music  which  the  negro  only  can  evoke.  Jeff  was 
an  artist,  and  had  a  complacent  consciousness  of  the  fact. 
He  was  a  living  instance  of  the  truth  that  artists  are  born, 
not  made.  No  knowledge  of  this  gifted  class  had  ever  sug 
gested  kinship;  he  did  not  even  know  what  the  word  meant, 
but  when  his  cheek  rested  lovingly  against  his  violin  he  felt 
that  he  was  made  of  different  clay  from  other  "niggahs." 
During  the  day  he  indulged  in  moods  by  the  divine  right 
and  impulse  of  genius,  imitating  his  gifted  brothers  uncon 
sciously.  In  waiting  on  the  table,  washing  dishes,  and 
hoeing  the  garden,  he  was  as  great  a  laggard  as  Pegasus 
would  have  been  if  compelled  to  the  labors  of  a  cart-horse; 
but  when  night  came,  and  uncongenial  toil  was  over,  his 
soul  expanded.  His  corrugated  brow  unwrinkled  itself; 
his  great  black  fingers  flew  back  and  forth  over  the  strings 
as  if  driven  by  electricity;  and  electric  in  effect  were  the 
sounds  produced  by  his  swiftly-glancing  bow. 

While  the  spirit  of  music  so  filled  his  heart  that  he  could 
play  to  the  moon  and  silent  stars,  an  audience  inspired  him 
with  tenfold  power,  especially  if  the  floor  was  cleared  or  a 
smooth  sward  selected  for  a  dance.  Barely  did  he  play  long 
before  all  who  could  trip  a  measure  were  on  their  feet,  while 
even  the  superannuated  nodded  and  kept  time,  sighing  that 
they  were  old.  His  services  naturally  came  into  great  de 
mand,  and  he  was  catholic  in  granting  them — his  mistress 
in  good-natured  tolerance  acceding  to  requests  which  prom 
ised  many  forgetful  hours  at  a  time  when  the  land  was  shad 
owed  by  war.  So  it  happened  that  Jeff  was  often  at  the 
more  pretending  residences  of  the  neighborhood,  sometimes 
fiddling  in  the  detached  kitchen  of  a  Southern  mansion  to 
the  shuffle  of  heavy  feet,  again  in  the  lighted  parlor,  espe 
cially  when  Confederate  troops  were  quartered  near.  It 
was  then  that  his  strains  took  on  their  most  inspiring  and 
elevated  character.  He  gave  wings  to  the  dark- eyed  South 
ern  girls;  their  feet  scarcely  touched  the  floor  as  they  whirled 


JEFF'S    TREASURE  285 

with  their  cavaliers  in  gray,  or  threaded  the  mazes  of  the 
cotillon  then  and  there  in  vogue. 

Nor  did  he  disdain  an  invitation  to  a  crossroads  tavern, 
frequented  by  poor  whites  and  enlisted  men,  or  when  the 
nights  were  warm,  to  a  moonlit  sward,  on  which  he  would 
invite  his  audience  to  a  reel  which  left  all  breathless.  While 
there  was  a  rollicking  element  in  the  strains  of  his  fiddle 
which  a  deacon  could  not  resist,  he,  with  the  intuition  of 
genius,  adapted  himself  to  the  class  before  him.  In  the 
parlor,  he  called  off  the  figures  of  a  quadrille  with  a  "by- 
yer-leave-sah"  air,  selecting,  as  a  rule,  the  highest  class  of 
music  that  had  blessed  his  ears,  for  he  was  ear-taught  only. 
He  would  hold  a  half- washed  dish  suspended  minutes  at  a 
time  while  listening  to  one  "ob  de  young  missys  at  de 
pianny.  Dat's  de  way  I'se  pick  up  my  most  scrumptious 
pieces.  Dey  cyant  play  nuffin  in  de  daytime  dat  I  cyant 
'prove  on  in  de  ebenin';"  and  his  vanity  did  not  lead  him 
much  astray.  But  when  with  those  of  his  own  color,  or 
with  the  humbler  classes,  he  gave  them  the  musical  ver 
nacular  of  the  region — rude  traditional  quicksteps  and 
songs,  strung  together  with  such  variations  of  his  own  as 
made  him  the  envy  and  despair  of  all  other  fiddlers  in  the 
vicinity.  Indeed,  he  could  rarely  get  away  from  a  great 
house  without  a  sample  of  his  powers  in  this  direction,  and 
then  blending  with  the  rhythmical  cadence  of  feet,  the  rustle 
of  garments,  would  be  evoked  ripples  of  mirth  and  bursts  of 
laughter  that  were  echoed  back  from  the  dim  pine-groves 
without.  Finally,  when  with  his  great  foot  beating  time  on 
the  floor  and  every  muscle  of  his  body  in  motion,  he  ended 
with  an  original  arrangement  of  "Dixie,"  the  eyes  of  the 
gentlest  maiden  would  flash  as  she  joined  the  chorus  of  the 
men  in  gray,  who  were  scarcely  less  excited  for  the  moment 
than  they  would  have  been  in  a  headlong  cavalry  charge. 

These  were  moments  of  glory  for  Jeff.  In  fact,  on  all 
similar  occasions  he  had  a  consciousness  of  his  power;  he 
made  the  slave  forget  his  bondage,  the  poor  whites  their 
poverty,  maidens  the  absence  of  their  fathers,  brothers, 


286  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

and  lovers,  and  the  soldier  the  chances  against  his  re 
turn. 

At  last  there  came  a  summer  day  when  other  music  than 
that  of  Jeff's  fiddle  resounded  through  that  region.  Two 
armies  met  and  grappled  through  the  long  sultry  hours. 
Every  moment  death  wounds  were  given  and  received, 
for  thick  as  insects  in  woods,  grove,  and  thicket,  bullets 
whizzed  on  their  fatal  mission;  while  from  every  eminence 
the  demoniacal  shells  shrieked  in  exultation  over  the  havoc 
they  wrought. 

Jeff's  home  was  on  the  edge  of  the  battlefield,  and  as  he 
trembled  in  the  darkest  corner  of  the  cellar,  he  thought, 
"Dis  yer  beats  all  de  thunder-gusts  I  eber  heered  crack,  run 
togedder  in  one  big  hurricane." 

With  the  night  came  silence,  except  as  it  was  broken  by 
the  groans  and  cries  of  wounded  men;  and  later  the  contend 
ing  forces  departed,  having  accorded  to  the  fallen  such  poor 
burial  as  was  given  them  when  life  was  cheap  and  death  the 
chief  harvester  in  Virginia. 

For  a  day  or  two  Jeff's  conscience  was  active,  and  the 
memory  of  the  resolutions  inspired  by  the  din  of  war  gave 
to  his  thin  visage  a  preternatural  seriousness.  Dishes  were 
washed  in  such  brief  time  and  so  thoroughly,  and  such 
havoc  made  in  the  garden- weeds  that  the  world  might  make 
a  note  of  Jeff's  idea  of  reform  (to  its  advantage).  In  the 
evening  his  fiddle  wailed  out  psalm-tunes  to  the  entire  ex 
clusion  of  its  former  carnal  strains. 

It  must  be  admitted,  however,  that  Jeff's  grace  was  like 
the  early  dew.  On  the  third  evening,  "Ole  Dan  Tucker" 
slipped  in  among  the  hymns,  and  these  were  played  in  a 
time  scarcely  befitting  their  character.  Then  came  a  bit  of 
news  that  awakened  a  wholly  different  train  of  thought  and 
desire.  A  colored  boy,  more  venturous  than  himself,  was 
said  to  have  picked  up  some  "Linkum"  money  on  the  bat 
tlefield.  This  information  shed  on  the  wild  wooded  tract 
where  the  war  trumpet  had  raged  the  most  fiercely  a  light 
more  golden  than  that  of  the  moon  then  at  its  full;  and  Jeff 


JEFF'S    TREASURE  287 

resolved  that  with  the  coming  night  he  also  would  explore  a 
region  which,  nevertheless,  had  nameless  terrors  for  him. 

"Ef  dere's  spooks  anywhere  dey's  dereaway,"  he  mut 
tered  over  his  hoe;  "but  den,  ki!  dey  woan  'fere  wid  dis 
yer  niggah.  What  hab  I'se  got  ter  do  wid  de  wah  and  de 
fighten  an  de  jabbin'  ?  De  spooks  cyant  lay  nuffin  ter  me 
eben  ef  ole  marse  an'  de  res'  am  a- fighten  ter  keep  dere 
slabes,  as  folks  say." 

Having  thus  satisfied  himself  that  the  manes  of  the  dead 
thousands  could  have  no  controversy  with  him,  Jeff  mus 
tered  sufficient  resolution  to  visit  the  field  that  night.  He 
took  no  one  into  his  confidence,  fearing  if  he  discovered 
treasures  of  any  kind  he  could  not  be  left  in  undisturbed 
possession.  During  the  day  the  rudiments  of  imagination 
which  made  him  a  musician  had  been  conjuring  up  the  pos 
sible  results  of  his  expedition. 

"De  ting  fer  dis  cullud  pusson  ter  do  is  ter  p'ramberlate 
ter  de  Linkum  lines.  Ki!  I  doan  wan'  what  drap  outen  our 
sogers'  pockets.  I  kin  git  Virginny-leaf  widouten  runnin' 
'mong  de  spooks  arter  it.  De  place  fer  a  big  fine  is  whar  de 
brush  is  tick  and  de  Linkum  men  crawl  away  so  dey  woan 
be  tromp  on.  Who  knows  but  I  kin  fine  a  place  whar  a 
ginral  hide  hisself  ?  Ob  cose  if  he  hab  a  lot  of  gole  he'd 
stick  it  in  de  bush  or  kiver  it  right  smart,  so  dat  oders 
moutn't  get  it  foh  he  could  helf  hisself." 

Jeff  thought  he  had  reasoned  himself  into  such  a  valor 
ous  state  that  he  could  walk  across  the  deserted  battlefield 
with  nonchalance;  but  as  he  entered  on  a  deeply  shadowed 
dirt-road  long  since  disused  to  any  extent,  he  found  strange 
creeping  sensations  running  up  and  down  his  back.  The 
moonlight  filtered  through  the  leaves  with  fantastic  effects. 
A  young  silver  poplar  looked  ghastly  in  the  distance;  and 
now  and  then  a  tree  cut  off  by  a  shot  looked  almost  human 
in  its  mutilation. 

He  had  not  gone  very  far  before  he  saw  what  appeared 
to  be  the  body  of  a  man  lying  across  the  road.  With  a 
sudden  chill  of  blood  he  stopped  and  stared  at  the  object. 


288  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

Gradually  it  resolved  itself  into  a  low  mound  in  the  dim 
light.  Approaching  cautiously,  he  discovered  with  a  dull 
sense  of  horror  that  a  soldier  had  been  buried  where  he  had 
fallen,  but  covered  so  slightly  that  the  tumulus  scarcely  more 
than  outlined  his  form. 

"Ob  cose  I  knowed  I'd  hab  ter  see  dese  tings  foh  I 
started.  What  I  such  a  fool  fer  ?  De  Feds  nor  de  Yanks 
am'  a-gwine  ter  bodder  me  if  I  ain'  steppin'  on  'em  or  ober 
'em."  And  he  went  scrupulously  on  the  other  side  of  the 
road. 

By  and  by,  however,  he  came  to  a  part  of  the  wood-lane 
where  men  had  fallen  by  the  score,  and  bodies  had  been  cov 
ered  in  twos,  threes,  and  dozens.  His  head  felt  as  if  his  very 
wool  were  straightening  itself  out,  as  he  wound  here  and 
there  and  zigzagged  in  all  directions  lest  he  should  step  on 
or  over  a  grave.  A  breeze  stirred  the  forest  as  if  all  the 
thousands  buried  in  its  shades  had  heaved  a  long  deep  sigh. 
With  chattering  teeth  Jeff  stopped  to  listen,  then,  reassured, 
continued  to  pick  his  tortuous  way.  Suddenly  there  was  an 
ominous  rustling  in  a  thicket  just  behind.  He  broke  into  a 
headlong  flight  across  and  over  everything,  when  the  startled 
grunt  of  a  hog  revealed  the  prosaic  nature  of  this  spook. 
Scarcely  any  other  sound  could  have  been  more  reassuring. 
The  animal  suggested  bacon  and  hominy  and  hoe-cake,  every 
thing  except  the  ghostly.  He  berated  himself  angrily: 

"Ki!  you  niggah!  dat  ar  hog  got  mo'  co'age  dan  you. 
He  know  he  hab  nuffin  mo'  ter  do  wid  de  spooks  dan  you 
hab.  De  run  ain'  far,  and  when  I  gits  ober  dat  de  spooks 
on  de  side  dis  way  cyant  cross  arter  me;"  and  he  hastened 
toward  the  spot  where  he  supposed  the  Federals  had  been 
massed  the  most  heavily,  crossing  an  open  field  and  splash 
ing  through  a  shallow  place  in  the  river,  that  their  ghost- 
ships  might  be  reminded  of  running  water. 

On  the  further  slope  were  the  same  sad  evidences  of  poor 
mortality,  graves  here  and  there  and  often  all  too  shallow, 
broken  muskets,  bullet- perforated  canteens  and  torn  knap 
sacks — the  debris  of  a  pitched  battle.  Many  trees  and  shrubs 


JEFF'S    TREASURE  289 

were  so  lacerated  that  their  foliage  hung  limp  and  wilting, 
while  boughs  with  shrivelled  leaves  strewed  the  ground. 
Nature's  wounds  indicated  that  men  had  fought  here  and 
been  mutilated  as  ruthlessly. 

For  a  time  nothing  of  value  rewarded  Jeff's  search,  and 
he  began  to  succumb  to  the  grewsome  associations  of  the 
place.  At  last  he  resolved  to  examine  one  more  thicket 
that  bordered  an  old  rail-fence,  and  then  make  a  long  de 
tour  rather  than  go  back  by  the  graveyard  road  over  which 
he  had  come.  Pushing  the  bushes  aside,  he  peered  among 
their  shadows  for  some  moments,  and  then  uttered  an  ex 
clamation  of  surprise  and  terror  as  he  bounded  backward. 
There  was  no  mistake  this  time;  he  had  seen  the  figure  of  a 
man  with  a  ray  of  moonlight  filtering  through  the  leaves  on 
a  ghastly  bullet-hole  in  his  temple.  He  sat  with  his  back 
against  the  fence,  and  had  not  moved  after  receiving  the 
shock.  At  his  feet,  dropped  evidently  from  his  nerveless 
hand,  lay  a  metal  box.  All  had  flashed  almost  instantane 
ously  on  Jeff's  vision. 

For  some  moments  he  was  in  doubt  whether  to  take  to 
his  heels  homeward  or  reconnoitre  again.  The  soldier  sat 
in  such  a  lifelike  attitude  that  while  Jeff  knew  the  man 
must  be  dead,  taking  the  box  seemed  like  robbing  the  liv 
ing.  Yes,  worse  than  that,  for,  to  the  superstitious 
negro,  the  dead  soldier  appeared  to  be  watching  his 
treasure. 

Jeff's  cupidity  slowly  mastered  his  fears.  Cautiously 
approaching  the  figure,  he  again  pushed  aside  the  screening 
boughs,  and  with  chattering  teeth  and  trembling  limbs, 
looked  upon  the  silent  guardian  of  the  treasure,  half  ex 
pecting  the  dead  man  to  raise  his  head,  and  warn  him  off 
with  a  threatening  gesture.  Since  the  figure  remained  mo 
tionless,  Jeff  made  a  headlong  plunge,  clutched  the  box, 
then  ran  half  a  mile  without  thinking  to  look  back. 

Not  for  his  life  would  he  cross  the  battlefield  again ;  so 
it  was  late  when  by  wide  circuit  he  approached  the  dwelling 
of  his  mistress.  His  panic  had  gradually  subsided,  and  as 

13— ROE— XI 


290  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

he  noted  familiar  objects,  he  felt  that  he  was  beyond  the 
proper  range  of  the  unjust  spirits  of  the  dead. 

The  soldier  he  had  left  sitting  against  the  fence  troubled 
him,  it  is  true;  and  he  was  not  quite  sure  that  he  was 
through  with  one  so  palpably  robbed.  That  he  had  not 
been  followed  appeared  certain;  that  the  question  of  future 
ownership  of  the  treasure  could  be  settled  was  a  matter  of 
superstitious  belief.  There  was  only  one  way — he  must 
hide  the  box  in  a  secret  nook,  and  if  it  remained  undis 
turbed  for  a  reasonable  length  of  time,  he  might  hope  for 
its  undisturbed  enjoyment.  Accordingly  he  stole  into  a 
dense  copse  and  buried  his  booty  at  the  foot  of  a  persim 
mon-tree,  then  gained  his  humble  quarter  and  slept  so  late 
and  soundly  that  he  had  to  be  dragged  almost  without  the 
door  the  next  morning  before  he  shook  off  his  lethargy. 


JEFF'S    TREASURE  291 


CHAPTER  II 

ITS     INFLUENCE 

WITH  the  exception  of  aptitude  which  enabled  Jeff 
to  catch  and  fix  a  tune  in  his  mind  with  a  fair 
degree  of  correctness,  his  mental  processes  were 
slow.  Moreover,  whether  he  should  ever  have  any  trouble 
with  "spooks"  or  not,  one  thing  was  true  of  him,  as  of 
many  others  in  all  stations  of  life,  he  was  haunted  by  the 
ghost  of  a  conscience.  This  uneasy  spirit  suggested  to  him 
with  annoying  iteration  that  his  proceedings  the  night  be 
fore  had  been  of  very  unusual  and  doubtful  character. 
When  at  last  fully  awake,  he  sought  to  appease  the  accus 
ing  voice  by  unwonted  diligence  in  all  his  tasks,  until  the 
fat  cook,  a  devout  Baptist,  took  more  than  one  occasion  to 
say,  4t  You'se  in  a  promisin'  frame,  Jeff.  Ef  I'se  ony  shoah 
dat  yer  hole  out  long  anuff  ter  get  'mersed,  I'd  hab  hopes 
on  yer,  but,  law!  yer'll  be  a-fiddlin'  de  debil's  tunes  'fo' 
de  week  is  out.  I'se  afeared  dat  dere  must  be  an  awful 
prov'dence,  like  a  battle  or  harricane,  onst  a  week,  ter  keep 
yer  ser'ous;"  and  the  old  woman  sniffed  down  at  him  with 
ill-concealed  disdain  from  her  superior  spiritual  height. 

Jeff  was  as  serious  as  could  have  been  wished  all  that 
day,  for  there  was  much  on  his  mind.  Perplexing  questions 
tinged  with  supernatural  terrors  tormented  him.  Passing 
over  those  having  a  moral  point,  the  most  urgent  one  was, 
"S'pose  dat  ar  soger  miss  him  box  an*  come  arter  it  ter- 
night  Ki!  If  I  go  ter  see,  I  mout  run  right  on  ter  de 
spook.  I'se  a-gwine  ter  gib  'im  his  chance,  an'  den  take 
mine."  So  that  evening  Jeff  fortified  himself  and  increased 


292  TAKEN   ALIVE;    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

the  cook's  hope  by  a  succession  of  psalm-tunes  in  which 
there  was  no  lapse  toward  the  "debil's"  music. 

Next  morning,  after  a  long  sleep,  Jeff's  nerves  were 
stronger,  and  he  began  to  take  a  high  hand  with  conscience. 

"Dat  ar  soger  has  hab  his  chance, "  he  reasoned.  "Ef 
he  want  de  box  he  mus1  'a'  com  arter  it  las'  night.  I'se 
done  bin  fa'r  wid  him,  an'  now  ter-night,  ef  dat  ar  box  ain' 
'sturbed,  I'se  a-gwine  ter  see  de  'scription  an'  heft  on  it. 
Toder  night  I  was  so  'fuscated  dat  I  couldn't  know  nuffin 
straight. ' ' 

When  all  were  sleeping,  he  stole  to  the  persimmon- tree 
i«nd  was  elated  to  find  his  treasure  where  he  had  slightly 
buried  it.  The  little  box  seemed  heavy,  and  was  wholly 
unlike  anything  he  ever  seen  before. 

"Ob  cose  it's  got  money  in  it,"  Jeff  reasoned.  "Nuffin 
else  'ud  be  done  up  to  tight  and  strong.  I'se  Mroan  open  it 
jes'  yet,  feared  de  missus  or  de  colored  boys  'spec'  some- 
ting.  Ki!  I  isn't  a-gwine  ter  be  tied  up,  an'  hab  dat  box 
whip  out  in  me.  I'll  tink  how  I  kin  hide  an'  spen'  de 
money  kine  of  slowcution  like,"  With  this  he  restored 
the  prize  to  its  shallow  excavation  and  covered  it  with 
leaves  that  no  trace  of  fresh  earth  might  be  visible. 

Jeff's  deportment  now  began  to  evince  a  new  evolution 
in  mental  and  moral  process.  The  influence  of  riches  was 
quite  as  marked  upon  him  as  upon  so  many  of  his  white 
brothers  and  sisters,  proving  their  essential  kinship.  To 
day  he  began  to  sniff  disdainfully  at  his  menial  tasks;  and 
in  the  evening  "Ole  Dan  Tucker"  resounded  from  his  fiddle 
with  a  rollicking  abandon  over  which  the  cook  groaned  in 
despair,  "Dat  ar  niggah's  'ligion  drop  off  ob  'im  like  a  yal- 
ler  pig  from  de  bush.  'Ligion  dat's  skeert  inter  us  hain't 
no  'count  anyhow. " 

During  the  next  few  days  it  was  evident  that  Jeff  was 
falling  from  grace  rapidly.  Never  had  he  been  so  slow 
and  careless  in  his  tasks.  More  than  once  the  thought 
crossed  his  mind  that  he  had  better  take  his  box  and  "cut 
stick"  for  Washington,  where  he  believed  that  wealth  and 


JEFF'S    TREASURE  293 

his  fiddle  would  give  him  prominence  over  his  race.  For 
prudential  and  other  reasons  he  was  in  no  haste  to  open 
the  box,  preferring  rather  to  gloat  over  it  and  to  think 
how  he  could  spend  the  money  to  the  greatest  advantage. 
He  had  been  paying  his  court  to  a  girl  as  black  as  himself 
on  a  neighboring  plantation;  but  he  now  regarded  that  affair 
as  preposterous. 

"She  ain'  good  nuff  fer  me  no  mo',"  he  reasoned.  "1'se 
a-gwine  ter  shine  up  ter  dat  yeller  Suky  dat's  been  a-holdm' 
her  head  so  high  ober  ter  Marse  Perkins's.  1'se  invited  ter 
play  ober  dar  ter-night,  an'  I'll  make  dat  gal  open  her  eye. 
Ki!  she  tinks  no  culled  gemmen  in  dese  parts  fit  ter  hole  a 
cannle  when  she  braid  her  long  straight  ha'r,  but  when  she 
see  de  ribbin  I  kin  git  her  ter  tie  dat  ha'r  up  wid,  an'  de 
earrings  I  kin  put  in  her  ears,  she  larf  on  toder  side  ob  her 
face.  'Fo'  I  go  I'se  a-gwine  ter  buy  dat  ar  gole  ring  ob 
Sam  Milkins  down  at  de  tavern.  S'pose  it  does  take  all  I'se 
been  sabin'  up,  I'se  needn't  sabe  any  mo'.  Dat  ar  box  got 
nuff  in  it  ter  keep  me  like  a  lawd  de  rest  ob  my  life.  I'd 
open  it  ter-night  if  I  wasn't  goin'  ter  Marse  Perkins's." 

Jeff  carried  out  his  high-handed  measures  and  appeared 
that  evening  at  "Marse  Perkins's"  with  a  ring  of  portentous 
size  squeezed  on  the  little  finger  of  his  left  hand.  It  had 
something  of  the  color  of  gold,  and  that  is  the  best  that  can 
be  said  of  it;  but  it  had  left  its  purchaser  penniless.  This 
fact  sat  lightly  on  Jeff's  mind,  however,  as  he  remembered 
the  box  at  the  foot  of  the  persimmon-tree;  and  he  stalked 
into  the  detached  kitchen,  where  a  dusky  assemblage  were 
to  indulge  in  a  shuffle,  with  the  air  of  one  who  intends  that 
his  superiority  shall  be  recognized  at  once. 

"Law  sakes,  Jeff!"  said  Mandy,  his  hitherto  ebon  flame, 
"yer  comes  in  like  a  turkey  gobbler.  Doesn't  yer  know 
me?" 

"Sartin  I  know  yer,  Mandy.  You'se  a  good  gal  in 
you'se  way,  but,  law!  you'se  had  yer  spell.  A  culled 
gemmen  kin  change  his  min'  when  he  sees  dat  de  'finity's 
done  gone." 


TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

"Look  here,  Jeff  Wobbles,  does  yer  mean  ter  give  me 
desack?" 

"I  mean  ter  gib  yer  good-ebenin',  Miss  Mandy  Munson. 
Yer  kyant  'spec'  a  gemmen  to  be  degaged  in  de  music  an'  a 
gal  at  de  same  time,"  replied  Jeff,  with  oppressive  gravity. 

"Mister  Johnsing,  I'se  tank  yer  fo'  yer  arm,"  said  Mandy 
to  a  man  near,  with  responsive  dignity.  "Yer  wait  on  me 
here,  an'  yer  kin  wait  on  me  home.  I'se  'shamed  on  my- 
sef  dat  I  took  up  wid  a  lout  dat  kin  do  nuffin  but  fiddle; 
but  I  was  kine  ob  sorry  fer  him,  he  sich  a  fool." 

"Go  "long,"  remarked  Jeff,  smiling  mysteriously.  "Ef 
yer  knowed,  yer  'ud  be  wringin1  yer  han's  wuss  dan  yer  did 
at  de  las'  'tracted  meetin'.  Ah,  Miss  Suky,  dat  you?"  and 
Jeff  for  the  first  time  doffed  his  hat. 

"Wat's  in  de  win',  Jeff,  dat  yer  so  scrumptious  an' 
bumptious  like  dis  ebenin'  ?"  Suky  asked  a  trifle  scornfully. 

"Wen  de  'freshments  parse  'roun',  I'se  'steem  it  a  ob- 
lergation  ter  me  ef  yer'll  let  me  bring  yer  de  cake  an'  cider. 
I'se  sumpin  fer  yer.  Gemmen  an'  ladies,  took  yer  places," 
he  added  in  a  stentorian  voice;  "I  ax  yer  'sideration  fer  bein' 
late,  cose  I  had  'portant  business;  now, 

"Bow  dar,  scrape  dar; 

Doan  hang  about  de  doah. 
Shine  up  ter  de  pretty  gals, 
An,'  lead  'em  on  de  floah" — 

his  fiddle  seconding  his  exhortation  with  such  inciting 
strains  that  soon  there  was  not  a  foot  but  was  keeping 
time. 

Suky  observed  that  the  musician  had  eyes  for  her  only, 
and  that  toward  all  others  he  maintained  his  depressing 
superiority.  In  vain  did  Mandy  lavish  tokens  of  favor  on 
"Mister  Johnsing."  Jeff  did  not  lose  his  sudden  and  un 
expected  indifference;  while  the  great  ring  glistening  on 
his  finger  added  to  the  mystery.  There  were  many  whis 
pered  surmises;  but  gradually  the  conjecture  that  he  had 
"foun"  a  heap  ob  Linkurn  money"  was  regarded  as  the  best 
explanation  of  the  marked  change  in  his  bearing. 


JEFF'S    TREASURE  295 

Curiosity  soon  became  more  potent  than  Jeff's  fiddle, 
and  the  "  'freshments"  were  hurried  up.  So  far  from  re 
senting  this,  Jeff  put  his  violin  under  his  arm  and  stalked 
across  the  improvised  ball  room  to  Miss  Suky,  oblivious  of 
the  fact  that  she  had  a  suitor  on  either  side. 

"Gemmen,"  he  remarked  with  condescension,  "dis  lady 
am  degaged  ter  me  durin'  de  '  'freshments  period,'  "  and 
he  held  out  his  arm  in  such  a  way  that  the  massive  ring 
glittered  almost  under  Suky's  nose.  The  magnet  drew. 
His  arm  was  taken  in  spite  of  the  protests  of  the  enamored 
swains. 

"Permit  me  de  suggestation, "  continued  Jeff,  "dat  ter  a 
lady  ob  yer  'finement,  dis  place  am  not  fit  ter  breve  in. 
Wha's  mo',  I  doan  'cline  ter  hab  dese  yer  common  niggahs 
a-whisperin'  an'  a-pintin'  an'  a-'jecturin'  about  us.  Lemme 
yet  yer  a  seat  under  de  lite  ob  de  risin'  moon.  De  dusk  '11 
obscuate  yer  loveleness  so  I'se  dar'  tell  all  de  news." 

Suky,  mystified  and  expectant,  but  complacent  over 
another  conquest,  made  no  objections  to  these  whispered 
"suggestations,"  and  was  led  to  a  seat  under  the  shadow 
of  a  tree.  A  chorus  of  not  very  flattering  remarks  broke 
out,  ceasing  as  suddenly  when  Jeff  returned  for  a  portion 
of  the  cake  and  cider. 

"Mister  Wobbles,  yer's  prettin'  on  high  de  airs  ter- 
night,"  Suky  remarked,  with  an  interrogation  point  in  her 
voice. 

"Here's  ter  de  health  ob  Mrs.  Wobbles,"  he  answered, 
lifting  the  cider  to  his  lips. 

"I'se  no  'jections  ter  dat.  Who  is  she  ter  be?"  replied 
Suky,  very  innocently. 

"It's  not  my  'tention  ter  go  furder  and  far'  wuss.  Dis 
am  a  case  wha  de  presen'  company  am  not  'cepted." 

"No,  not  axcepted  jes'  yet,  Mr.  Wobbles,  if  yer'se  'dress- 
in'  yer  remarks  ter  me.  Yer  is  goin'  on  jes'  a  little  too  far." 

"P'raps  a  little  far;  but  yer'll  soon  catch  up  wid  me. 
Yer'se  a  lady  dat  got  a  min'  ob  her  own,  I  hope?" 
'It's  mine  yet,  anyhow." 


296  TAKEN    ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

"An1  yer  kin  keep  as  mum  as  a  possum  w'en  de  cawn  is 
in  demiik?" 

"Dat  'pends." 

"Ob  cose  it  does.  But  I'll  trus'  yer;  yer  ain'  de  one  ter 
bite  yer  own  nose  off.  Does  yer  see  dat  ar  ring,  Suky  ? 
Law!  how  pretty  dat  look  on  yer  degaged  finger!" 

41  'Tain'  dar  yet." 

"Lemme  put  it  dar.  Ki!  wouldn't  dey  look  an'  gape 
an'  pint  in  dar  yonder  w'en  yer  come  a-sailin'  in  wid  dat 
ring  on?" 

"Yes;  dey  tink  me  a  big  fool  ter  be  captivated  by  a  ring 
— brass,  too,  like  anufL  " 

"No,  Suky,  it's  gole — yallow  gole,  di  'plexion  ob  yer 
own  fair  ban'.  But,  law!  dis  ain'  nuffin  ter  what  I'se  '11  git 
yer.  Yer'se  shall  hab  rings  an'  dresses  an'  jules  till  yer 
'stinguish  de  oder  gals  like  de  sun  put  out  de  stars." 

"Whatyerfoun',  Jeff  Wobbles?" 

"I'se  foun'  what'll  make  yer  a  lady  if  yer  hab  sense. 
I'se  gib  yer  de  compliment  ob  s'lecting  yer  ter  shar'  my 
fine  if  yer'll  lemme  put  dis  ring  on  yer  degaged  finger." 

"Yer  doan  say  nuffin  'bout  lub  in  dis  yer  'rangement," 
Suky  simpered,  sidling  up  to  him. 

"Oh,  dat  kind  ob  sent'ment  '11  do  fer  common  niggahs," 
Jeff  explained  with  dignity.  "I'se  hurd  my  missus  talk 
'bout  'liances  'twixt  people  of  quality.  Ki!  Suky,  I'se  in 
a  'sition  now  ter  make  a  'liance  wid  yer.  Yer  ain'  like  dat 
low  gal,  Mandy.  What  Mister  Johnsing  ebber  hab  ter  gib 
her  but  a  lickin*  some  day  ?  I'se  done  wid  dat  common 
class;  1  may  fiddle  fur  'em  now  an'  den,  jes'  ter  see  dem 
sport  deysefs,  while  I'se  lookin'  on  kin'  ob  s'periur  like, 
yer  know.  But  den,  dey  ain'  our  kin'  ob  folks.  Yer'se 
got  qulities  dat' 11  shine  like  de  risin'  moon  dar."  Then  in 
a  whisper  he  added,  "De  Linkum  sogers  is  off  dar  ter  the 
east'erd.  One  night's  trabel  •  an'  dey'd  sen'  us  on  ter 
Washin'on.  Onst  yer  git  dar,  an'  hab  all  de  Jules  an' 
dresses  dat  I  gib  yer,  dar's  not  a  culled  gemmen  dereaway 
but  'ud  bow  down  ter  yer. " 


JEFF'S    TREASURE  297 

Here  was  a  dazzling  vista  that  Suky  could  not  resist. 
Her  ideas  of  freedom,  like  those  of  Jeff,  were  not  very- 
exalted.  At  that  period,  slave  property  in  the  vicinity  of 
the  Union  lines  was  fast  melting  away;  and  scarcely  a  night 
elapsed  but  some  one  was  missing,  the  more  adventurous 
and  intelligent  escaping  first,  and  others  following  as  oppor 
tunity  and  motive  pointed  the  way.  The  region  under  con 
sideration  had  not  yet  been  occupied  by  the  Federals,  and 
there  was  still  no  slight  risk  involved  in  flight.  Suky  did 
not  realize  the  magnitude  of  the  project.  She  was  not  the 
first  of  her  sex  to  be  persuaded  by  a  cavalier  and  promised 
gold  to  take  a  leap  into  the  dark. 

As  a  result  of  Jeff's  representations  the  '"liance"  was 
made  there  and  then,  secrecy  promised,  and  an  escape  to 
Washington  agreed  upon  as  soon  as  circumstances  per 
mitted — Suky's  mind,  I  regret  to  say,  dwelling  more  on 
"gemmen  bowing  down"  to  her  than  on  the  devotion  of 
the  allied  suitor. 

No  lady  of  rank  in  Timbuctoo  could  have  sailed  into  the 
kitchen  ball-room  with  greater  state  than  Suky  now  after 
the  compact  had  been  made,  Jeff  supporting  her  on  his  arm 
with  the  conscious  air  of  one  who  has  taken  the  prize  from 
all  competitors.  With  the  assurance  of  a  potentate  he 
ensconced  himself  in  the  orchestra  corner  and  called  the 
dancers  to  their  feet. 

But  the  spirit  of  mutiny  was  present.  Eager  eyes  noted 
that  the  ring  on  his  bow- hand  was  gone.  Then  it  was  seen 
glistening  on  Suky's  hand  as  she  ostentatiously  fanned  her 
self.  The  clamor  broke  out,  "Mister  Johnsing,"  incited  by 
Mandy  and  the  two  swains  between  whom  Suky  had  been 
sandwiched,  leading  the  revolt  against  Jeff's  arrogance  and 
success. 

There  were  many,  however,  who  had  no  personal  wrongs 
to  right,  and  who  did  not  relish  being  made  a  cat's-paw  by 
the  disaffected.  These  were  bent  on  the  natural  progression 
and  conclusion  of  the  dance.  In  consequence  of  the 
wordy  uproar  the  master  of  the  premises  appeared  and 


298  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER      TORIES 

cleared  them  all  out,  sending  his  own  servants  to  their 
quarters. 

Jeff  nearly  came  to  grief  that  night,  for  a  party  of  the 
malcontents  followed  him  on  his  homeward  walk.  Suspect 
ing  their  purpose,  he  dodged  behind  some  shrubbery,  heard 
their  threats  to  break  his  head  and  smash  his  fiddle,  and 
then  went  back  to  a  tryst  with  Suky. 

That  sagacious  damsel  had  been  meditating  on  the  pro 
posed  alliance.  Even  in  her  rather  sophisticated  mind  she 
had  regarded  a  semblance  of  love  as  essential;  but  since 
Jeff  had  put  everything  on  such  superior  grounds,  she  felt 
that  she  should  prove  herself  fit  for  new  and  exalted  con 
ditions  of  life  by  seeing  to  it  that  he  made  good  all  his 
remarkable  promises.  She  remembered  that  he  had  not  yet 
opened  the  box  of  money,  and  became  a  little  sceptical 
as  to  its  contents.  Somebody  might  have  watched  Jeff,  and 
have  carried  it  off. 

True,  she  had  the  ring,  but  that  was  not  the  price  of  her 
hand.  Nothing  less  than  had  been  promised  would  answer 
now;  and  when  she  stole  out  to  meet  Jeff  she  told  him  so. 
Under  the  witching  moonlight  he  began  to  manifest  ten 
dencies  to  sentiment  and  tenderness.  Her  response  was 
prompt:  "Go  'long!  what  dese  common  niggah  ways  got 
ter  do  wid  a  'liance?  Yer  show  me  de  gole  in  dat  box — 
dat's  de  bargain.  Den  de  'liance  hole  me  fas',  an'  I'll  help 
yer  spen'  de  money  in  Washin'on.  We'll  hab  a  wed  din' 
scrumptious  as  white  folks.  But,  law  sakes!  Jeff  Wob 
bles,  't  ain'  no  kin'  ob  'liance  till  I  see  dat  gole  an'  hab 
some  ob  it  too!" 

Jeff  had  to  succumb  like  many  a  higher- born  suitor  be 
fore  him,  with  the  added  chagrin  of  remembering  that  he 
had  first  suggested  the  purely  businesslike  aspect  of  his 
motive. 

"Berry  well;  meet  me  here  ter-morrer  night  when  I 
whistle  like  a  whip-o'-will.  But  yer  ain'  so  smart  as  yer 
tink  yer  are,  Suky.  Yer'se  made  it  cl'ar  ter  me  dat  I'se 
got  ter  keep  de  han'lin'  ob  dat  gole  or  you'll  be  a-carryin' 


JEFF'S    TREASURE  299 

dis  'liance  business  too  far!  If  I  gib  yer  gole,  I  expec'  yer 
ter  shine  up  an  be  'greeable-like  ter  me  ebbery  way  yer 
know  how.  Dat's  only  fa'r,  doggoned  ef  it  ain' !"  and  Jeff 
spoke  in  a  very  aggrieved  tone. 

Wily  Suky  chucked  him  under  the  chin,  saying:  "Show 
me  de  color  ob  de  gole  an'  de  'liance  come  out  all  right." 
Then  she  retired,  believing  that  negotiations  had  proceeded 
far  enough  for  the  present. 

Jeff  went  home  feeling  that  he  had  been  forewarned  and 
forearmed.  Since  her  heart  responded  to  a  golden  key  only, 
he  would  keep  that  key  and  use  it  judiciously. 

During  the  early  hours  of  the  following  night  Jeff  was 
very  wary  and  soon  discovered  that  he  was  watched.  He 
coolly  slipped  the  collar  from  a  savage  dog,  and  soon  there 
was  a  stampede  from  a  neighboring  grove.  An  hour  after, 
when  all  had  become  quiet  again,  he  took  the  dog  and, 
armed  with  an  axe,  started  out,  fully  resolved  on  breaking 
the  treasure- box  which  he  had  been  hoarding. 

The  late  moon  had  risen,  giving  to  Jeff  a  gnome-like 
aspect  as  he  dug  at  the  root  of  the  persimmon- tree.  The 
mysterious  box  soon  gleamed  with  a  pale  light  in  his  hand, 
like  the  leaden  casket  that  contained  Portia's  radiant  face. 
Surely,  when  he  struck  the  "open,  sesame"  blow,  that 
beauty  which  captivates  young  and  old  alike  would  dazzle 
his  eyes.  With  heart  now  devoid  of  all  compunction,  and 
exultant  in  anticipation,  he  struck  the  box,  shaving  off  the 
end  he  held  furthest  from  him.  An  "ancient  fish-like  smell" 
filled  the  air;  Jeff  sank  on  the  ground  and  stared  at  sardines 
and  rancid  oil  dropping  instead  of  golden  dollars  from  his 
treasure-box.  They  scarcely  touched  the  ground  before  the 
dog  snapped  them  all  up. 

The  bewildered  negro  knew  not  what  to  think.  Had  fish 
been  the  original  contents  of  the  box,  or  had  the  soldier's 
spook  transformed  the  gold  into  this  horrid  mess?  One 
thing,  however,  was  clear — he  had  lost,  not  only  Suky,  but 
prestige.  The  yellow  girl  would  scorn  him,  and  tell  of  his 
preposterous  promises.  Mandy  had  been  offended  beyond 


300  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

hope,  and  he  would  become  the  laughing-stock  and  byword 
of  all  the  colored  boys  for  miles  around. 

"Bar's  nuffin  lef  fer  me  but  ter  put  out  fer  freedom," 
he  soliloquized;  "ki!  I'se  a-gwine  ter  git  eben  wid  dat 
yallar  gal  yet.  I'll  cut  stick  ter-morrer  night  and  she'll 
tink  I  'sconded  alone,  totin'  de  box  wid  me,  and  dat  she 
was  too  sharp  in  dat  'liance  business." 

So  it  turned  out;  Jeff  and  his  fiddle  vanished,  leaving 
nothing  to  sustain  Suky  under  the  gibes  of  her  associates 
except  the  ring,  which  she  eventually  learned  was  as  brazen 
as  her  own  ambition. 

Jeff  wandered  into  the  service  of  a  Union  officer  whose 
patience  he  tried  even  more  than  that  of  his  tolerant  South 
ern  mistress;  but  when  by  the  camp-fire  he  brought  out  his 
violin,  all  his  shortcomings  were  condoned. 


CAUGHT    ON    THE    EBB-TIDE 


THE  August  morning  was  bright  and  fair,  but  Herbert 
Scofield's  brow  was  clouded.     He  had  wandered  off 
to  a  remote  part  of  the  grounds  of  a  summer  hotel 
on  the  Hudson,  and  seated  in  the  shade  of  a  tree,  had  lapsed 
into  such  deep  thought  that  his  cigar  had  gone  out  and  the 
birds  were  becoming  bold  in  the  vicinity  of  his  motionless 
figure. 

It  was  his  vacation  time  and  he  had  come  to  the  country 
ostensibly  for  rest.  As  the  result,  he  found  himself  in  the 
worst  state  of  unrest  that  he  had  ever  known.  Minnie 
Madison,  a  young  lady  he  had  long  admired,  was  the  mag 
net  that  had  drawn  him  hither.  Her  arrival  had  preceded 
his  by  several  weeks;  and  she  had  smiled  a  little  con 
sciously  when  in  looking  at  the  hotel  register  late  one 
afternoon  his  bold  chirography  met  her  eye. 

"There  are  so  many  other  places  to  which  he  might  have 
gone,"  she  murmured. 

Her  smile,  however,  was  a  doubtful  one,  not  expressive 
of  gladness  and  entire  satisfaction.  In  mirthful,  saucy  fash 
ion  her  thoughts  ran  on:  "The  time  has  come  when  he 
might  have  a  respite  from  business.  Does  he  still  mean 
business  by  coming  here?  I'm  not  sure  that  I  do,  although 
the  popular  idea  seems  to  be  that  a  girl  should  have  no 
vacation  in  the  daily  effort  to  find  a  husband.  I  continually 
disappoint  the  good  people  by  insisting  that  the  husband 
must  find  me.  I  have  a  presentiment  that  Mr.  Scofield  is 
looking  for  me ;  but  there  are  some  kinds  of  property  which 
cannot  be  picked  up  and  carried  off,  nolens  vokns,  when 
found." 

(301) 


302  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

Scofield  had  been  animated  by  no  such  clearly  defined 
purpose  as  he  was  credited  with  when  he  sought  the  summer 
resort  graced  by  Miss  Madison.  His  action  seemed  to  him 
tentative,  his  motive  ill-defined  even  in  his  own  conscious 
ness,  yet  it  had  been  strong  enough  to  prevent  any  hesi 
tancy.  He  knew  he  was  weary  from  a  long  year's  work. 
He  purposed  to  rest  and  take  life  very  leisurely,  and  he 
had  mentally  congratulated  himself  that  he  was  doing  a 
wise  thing  in  securing  proximity  to  Miss  Madison.  She 
had  evoked  his  admiration  in  New  York,  excited  more  than 
a  passing  interest,  but  he  felt  that  he  did  not  know  her  very 
well.  In  the  unconventional  life  now  in  prospect  he  could 
see  her  daily  and  permit  his  interest  to  be  dissipated  or 
deepened,  as  the  case  might  be,  while  he  remained,  in  the 
strictest  sense  of  the  world,  uncommitted.  It  was  a  very 
prudent  scheme  and  not  a  bad  one.  He  reasoned  justly: 
"This  selecting  a  wife  is  no  bagatelle.  A  man  wishes  to 
know  something  more  about  a  woman  than  he  can  learn  in 
a  drawing-room  or  at  a  theatre  party." 

But  now  he  was  in  trouble.  He  had  been  unable  to 
maintain  this  judicial  aspect.  He  had  been  made  to  under 
stand  at  the  outset  that  Miss  Madison  did  not  regard  herself 
as  a  proper  subject  for  deliberate  investigation,  and  that 
she  was  not  inclined  to  aid  in  his  researches.  So  far  from 
meeting  him  with  engaging  frankness  and  revealing  her 
innermost  soul  for  his  inspection,  he  found  her  as  elusive 
as  only  a  woman  of  tact  can  be  when  so  minded,  even  at 
a  place  where  people  meet  daily.  It  was  plain  to  him  from 
the  first  that  he  was  not  the  only  man  who  favored  her  with 
admiring  glances;  and  he  soon  discovered  that  young  Merri- 
weather  and  his  friend  flackley  had  passed  beyond  the  neu 
tral  ground  of  non-committal.  He  set  himself  the  task  of 
learning  how  far  these  suitors  had  progressed  in  her  good 
graces;  he  would  not  be  guilty  of  the  folly  of  giving  chase 
to  a  prize  already  virtually  captured.  This  too  had  proved 
a  failure.  Clearly,  would  he  know  what  Mr.  Merriweather 
and  Mr.  Hackley  were  to  Miss  Madison  he  must  acquire 


CAUGHT  ON    THE   EBB-TIDE  303 

the  power  of  mind  reading.  Each  certainly  appeared  to  be 
a  very  good  friend  of  hers — a  much  better  friend  than  he 
could  claim  to  be,  for  in  his  case  she  maintained  a  certain 
unapproachableness  which  perplexed  and  nettled  him. 

After  a  week  of  rest,  observation,  and  rather  futile  effort 
to  secure  a  reasonable  share  of  Miss  Madison's  society  and 
attention,  he  became  assured  that  he  was  making  no  prog 
ress  whatever  so  far  as  she  was  concerned,  but  very  decided 
progress  in  a  condition  of  mind  and  heart  anything  but 
agreeable  should  the  affair  continue  so  one-sided.  He  had 
hoped  to  see  her  daily,  and  was  not  disappointed.  He 
had  intended  to  permit  his  mind  to  receive  such  impres 
sions  as  he  should  choose;  and  now  his  mind  asked  no 
permission  whatever,  but  without  volition  occupied  itself 
with  her  image  perpetually.  He  was  not  sure  whether  she 
satisfied  his  preconceived  ideals  of  what  a  wife  should  be 
or  not,  for  she  maintained  such  a  firm  reticence  in  regard 
to  herself  that  he  could  put  his  finger  on  no  affinities.  She 
left  no  doubt  as  to  her  intelligence,  but  beyond  that  she 
would  not  reveal  herself  to  him.  He  was  almost  satisfied 
that  she  discouraged  him  utterly  and  that  it  would  be  wiser 
to  depart  before  his  feelings  became  more  deeply  involved. 
At  any  rate  he  had  better  do  this  or  else  make  love  in  dead 
earnest.  Which  course  should  he  adopt  ? 

There  came  a  day  which  brought  him  to  a  decision. 

A  party  had  been  made  up  for  an  excursion  into  the 
Highlands,  Miss  Madison  being  one  of  the  number.  She 
was  a  good  pedestrian  and  rarely  missed  a  chance  for  a 
ramble  among  the  hills.  Scofield's  two  rivals  occasionally 
got  astray  with  her  in  the  perplexing  wood-roads,  but  he 
never  succeeded  in  securing  such  good-fortune.  On  this 
occasion,  as  they  approached  a  woodchopper's  cottage  (or 
rather,  hovel),  there  were  sounds  of  acute  distress  within — 
the  piercing  cries  of  a  child  evidently  in  great  pain.  There 
was  a  moment  of  hesitancy  in  the  party,  and  then  Miss  Mad 
ison's  graceful  indifference  vanished  utterly.  As  she  ran 
hastily  to  the  cabin,  Scofield  felt  that  now  probably  was  a 


304  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

chance  for  more  than  mere  observation,  and  he  kept  beside 
her.  An  ugly  cur  sought  to  bar  entrance;  but  his  vigorous 
kick  sent  it  howling  away.  She  gave  him  a  quick  pleased 
look  as  they  entered.  A  slatternly  woman  was  trying  to 
soothe  a  little  boy,  who  at  all  her  attempts  only  writhed 
and  shrieked  the  more.  "I  dunno  what  ails  the  young 
one,"  she  said.  "I  found  him  a  moment  ago  yellin'  at  the 
foot  of  a  tree.  Suthin's  the  matter  with  his  leg." 

"Yes,"  cried  Miss  Madison,  delicately  feeling  of  the 
member — an  operation  which,  even  under  her  gentle  touch, 
caused  increased  outcry,  "it  is  evidently  broken.  Let  me 
take  him  on  my  lap;"  and  Scofield  saw  that  her  face  had 
softened  into  the  tenderest  pity. 

"I  will  bring  a  surgeon  at  the  earliest  possible  moment," 
exclaimed  Scofield,  turning  to  go. 

Again  she  gave  him  an  approving  glance  which  warmed 
his  heart.  "The  ice  is  broken  between  us  now,"  he  thought, 
as  he  broke  through  the  group  gathering  at  the  open  door. 

Never  before  had  he  made  such  time  down  a  mountain, 
for  he  had  a  certain  kind  of  consciousness  that  he  was  not 
only  going  after  the  doctor,  but  also  after  the  girl.  Secur 
ing  a  stout  horse  and  wagon  at  the  hotel,  he  drove  furiously 
for  the  surgeon,  explained  the  urgency,  and  then,  with  the 
rural  healer  at  his  side,  almost  killed  the  horse  in  returning. 

He  found  his  two  rivals  at  the  cabin  door,  the  rest  of  the 
party  having  gone  on.  Miss  Madison  came  out  quickly. 
An  evanescent  smile  flitted  across  her  face  as  she  saw  his 
kindled  eyes  and  the  reeking  horse,  which  stood  trembling 
and  with  bowed  head.  His  ardor  was  a  little  dampened 
when  she  went  directly  to  the  poor  beast  and  said,  "This 
horse  is  a  rather  severe  indictment  against  you,  Mr.  Sco 
field.  There  was  need  of  haste,  but — "  and  she  paused 
significantly. 

"Yes,"  added  the  doctor,  springing  out,  "1  never  saw 
such  driving!  It's  lucky  our  necks  are  not  broken  " 

"You  are  all  right,  Doctor,  and  ready  for  your  work," 
Scofield  remarked  brusquely.  "As  for  the  horse,  I'll  soon 


CAUGHT  ON    THE   EBB-TIDE  306 

bring  him  around;"  and  he  rapidly  began  to  unhitch  the 
over-driven  animal. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  Miss  Madison  asked 
curiously. 

"Rub  him  into  as  good  shape  as  when  he  started." 

She  turned  away  to  hide  a  smile  as  she  thought,  "He  has 
waked  up  at  last. ' ' 

The  boy  was  rendered  unconscious,  and  his  leg  speedily 
put  in  the  way  of  restoration.  "He  will  do  very  well  now 
if  my  directions  are  carried  out  strictly,"  the  physician  was 
saying  when  Scofield  entered.. 

Mr.  Merriweather  and  Mr.  Hackley  stood  rather  help 
lessly  in  the  background  and  were  evidently  giving  more 
thought  to  the  fair  nurse  than  to  the  patient.  The  mother 
was  alternating  between  lamentations  and  invocations  of 
good  on  the  "young  leddy's"  head.  Finding  that  he  would 
come  in  for  a  share  of  the  latter,  Scofield  retreated  again. 
Miss  Madison  walked  quietly  out,  and  looking  critically  at 
the  horse,  remarked,  "You  have  kept  your  word  very 
well,  Mr.  Scofield.  The  poor  creature  does  look  much 
improved."  She  evidently  intended  to  continue  her  walk 
with  the  two  men  in  waiting,  for  she  said  demurely  with  an 
air  of  dismissal,  "You  will  have  the  happy  consciousness  of 
having  done  a  good  deed  this  morning." 

"Yes,"  replied  Scofield,  in  significant  undertone;  "you, 
of  all  others,  Miss  Madison,  know  how  inordinately  happy 
I  shall  be  in  riding  back  to  the  village  with  the  doctor. ' ' 

She  raised  her  eyebrows  in  a  little  well-feigned  surprise 
at  his  words,  then  turned  away. 

Daring  the  remainder  of  the  day  he  was  unable  to  see 
her  alone  for  a  moment,  or  to  obtain  any  further  reason  to 
believe  that  the  ice  was  in  reality  broken  between  them. 
But  his  course  was  no  longer  noncommittal,  even  to  the 
most  careless  observer.  The  other  guests  of  the  house 
smiled;  and  Mr.  Merriweather  and  Mr.  Hackley  looked 
askance  at  one  who  threw  their  assiduous  attentions  quite 
into  the  shade.  Miss  Madison  maintained  her  composure, 


306  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

was  oblivious  as  far  as  possible,  and  sometimes  when  she 
could  not  appear  blind,  looked  a  little  surprised  and  even 
offended. 

He  had  determined  to  cast  prudence  and  circumlocution 
to  the  winds.  On  the  morning  following  the  episode  in  the 
mountains  he  was  waiting  to  meet  her  when  she  came  down 
to  breakfast.  "I've  seen  that  boy,  Miss  Madison,  and  he's 
doing  well." 

"What!  so  early?  You  are  a  very  kind-hearted  man, 
Mr.  Scofield." 

"About  as  they  average.  That  you  are  kind-hearted  I 
know — at  least  to  every  one  except  me — for  I  saw  your  ex 
pression  as  you  examined  the  little  fellow's  injury  yester 
day.  You  thought  only  of  the  child — " 

"I  hope  you  did  also,  Mr.  Scofield,"  she  replied  with  an 
exasperating  look  o'f  surprise. 

"You  know  well  I  did  not,"  he  answered  bluntly.  "I 
thought  it  would  be  well  worth  while  to  have  my  leg  broken 
if  you  would  look  at  me  in  the  same  way. ' ' 

"Truly,  Mr.  Scofield,  I  fear  you  are  not  as  kind-hearted 
as  I  supposed  you  to  be;"  and  then  she  turned  to  greet  Mr. 
Merriweather. 

"Won't  you  let  me  drive  you  up  to  see  the  boy  ?"  inter 
posed  Scofield,  boldly. 

"I'm  sorry,  but  I  promised  to  go  up  with  the  doctor  this 
morning. ' ' 

And  so  affairs  went  on.  He  thought  at  times  her  color 
quickened  a  little  when  he  approached  suddenly;  he  fancied 
that  he  occasionally  surprised  a  half-wistful,  half-mirthful 
glance,  but  was  not  sure.  He  knew  that  she  was  as  well 
aware  of  his  intentions  and  wishes  as  if  he  had  proclaimed 
them  through  a  speaking-trumpet.  His  only  assured  ground 
of  comfort  was  that  neither  Mr.  Merriweather  nor  Mr.  Hack- 
ley  had  yet  won  the  coveted  prize,  though  they  evidently 
were  receiving  far  greater  opportunities  to  push  their  suit 
than  he  had  been  favored  with. 

At  last  his  vacation  was  virtually  at  an  end.     But  two 


CAUGHT   ON    THE    EBB-TIDE  307 

more  days  would  elapse  before  he  must  be  at  his  desk  again 
in  the  city.  And  now  we  will  go  back  to  the  time  when  we 
found  him  that  early  morning  brooding  over  his  prospects, 
remote  from  observation.  What  should  he  do — propose  by 
letter?  "No,"  he  said  after  much  cogitation.  "lean  see 
that  little  affected  look  of  surprise  with  which  she  would 
read  my  plain  declaration  of  what  she  knows  so  well.  Shall 
I  force  a  private  interview  with  her  ?  The  very  word  'force, ' 
which  I  have  unconsciously  used,  teaches  me  the  folly  of 
this  course.  She  doesn't  care  a  rap  for  me,  and  I  should 
have  recognized  the  truth  long  ago.  I'll  go  back  to  the 
hotel  and  act  toward  her  precisely  as  she  has  acted  toward 
me.  I  can  then  at  least  take  back  to  town  a  little  shred  of 
dignity." 

He  appeared  not  to  see  her  when  she  came  down  to 
breakfast.  After  the  meal  was  over  he  sat  on  the  piazza 
engrossed  in  the  morning  paper.  An  excursion  party  for 
the  mountains  was  forming.  He  merely  bowed  politely  as 
she  passed  him  to  join  it,  but  he  ground  his  teeth  as  he  saw 
Merriweather  and  Hackley  escorting  her  away.  When  they 
were  out  of  sight  he  tossed  the  paper  aside  and  went  down 
to  the  river,  purposing  to  row  the  fever  out  of  his  blood. 
He  was  already  satisfied  how  difficult  his  tactics  would  be 
should  he  continue  to  see  her,  and  he  determined  to  be  ab 
sent  all  day,  to  so  tire  himself  out  that  exhaustion  would 
bring  early  sleep  on  his  return. 

Weary  and  leaden- spirited  enough  he  was,  as  late  in  the 
afternoon  he  made  his  way  back,  but  firm  in  sudden  resolve 
to  depart  on  an  early  train  in  the  morning  and  never  volun 
tarily  to  see  the  obdurate  lady  of  his  affections  again. 

Just  as  the  sun  was  about  sinking  he  approached  a  small 
wooded  island  about  half  a  mile  from  the  boat-house,  and 
was  surprised  to  notice  a  rowboat  high  and  dry  upon  the 
beach.  "Some  one  has  forgotten  that  the  tide  is  going 
out,"  he  thought,  as  he  passed;  but  it  was  no  affair  of 
his. 

A  voice  called  faintly,    "Mr.    Scofieldl" 


308  TAKEN  ALIVE:   AND    OTHER   STORIES 

He  started  at  the  familiar  tones,  and  looked  again. 
Surely  that  was  Miss  Madison  standing  by  the  prow  of  the 
stranded  skiff!  He  knew  well  indeed  it  was  she;  and  he 
put  his  boat  about  with  an  energy  not  in  keeping  with  his 
former  languid  strokes.  Then,  recollecting  himself,  he  be 
came  pale  with  the  self-control  he  purposed  to  maintain. 
"She  is  in  a  scrape,"  he  thought;  "and  calls  upon  me  as 
she  would  upon  any  one  else  to  get  her  out  of  it. ' ' 

Weariness  and  discouragement  inclined  him  to  be  some 
what  reckless  and  brusque  in  his  words  and  manner.  Un 
der  the  compulsion  of  circumstances  she  who  would  never 
graciously  accord  him  opportunities  must  now  be  alone  with 
him;  but  as  a  gentleman,  he  could  not  take  advantage  of  her 
helplessness,  to  plead  his  cause,  and  he  felt  a  sort  of  rage 
that  he  should  be  mocked  with  an  apparent  chance  which 
was  in  fact  no  chance  at  all. 

His  boat  stranded  several  yards  from  the  shore.  Throw 
ing  down  his  oars,  he  rose  and  faced  her.  Was  it  the  last 
rays  of  the  setting  sun  which  made  her  face  so  rosy,  or  was 
it  embarrassment  ? 

"I'm  in  a  dilemma,  Mr.  Scofield,"  Miss  Madison  began 
hesitatingly. 

"And  you  would  rather  be  in  your  boat,"  he  added. 

"That  would  not  help  me  any,  seeing  where  my  boat  is. 
I  have  done  such  a  stupid  thing !  I  stole  away  here  to  finish 
a  book,  and — well — I  didn't  notice  that  the  tide  was  running 
out.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  I'm  going  to  do." 

Scofield  put  his  shoulder  to  an  oar  and  tried  to  push  his 
craft  to  what  deserved  the  name  of  shore,  but  could  make 
little  headway.  He  was  glad  to  learn  by  the  effort,  how 
ever,  that  the  black  mud  was  not  unfathomable  in  depth. 
Hastily  reversing  his  action,  he  began  pushing  his  boat 
back  in  the  water. 

"Surely,  Mr.  Scofield,  you  do  not  intend  to  leave  me," 
began  Miss  Madison. 

"Surely  not,"  he  replied;  "but  then,  since  you  are  so 
averse  to  my  company,  I  must  make  sure  that  my  boat 


CAUGHT   ON    THE   EBB-TIDE  309 

does  not  become  as  fast  as  yours  on  this  ebb-tide,  otherwise 
we  should  both  have  to  wait  till  the  flood. ' ' 

"Oh,  beg  pardon!  I  now  understand.  But  how  can 
you  reach  me  ?" 

"Wade,"  he  replied  coolly,  proceeding  to  take  off  his 
shoes  and  stockings. 

"What!  through  that  horrid  black  mud?" 

"I  couldn't  leap  that  distance,  Miss  Madison." 

"It's  too  bad!  I'm  so  provoked  with  myself!  The  mud 
may  be  very  deep,  or  there  may  be  a  quicksand  or  some 
thing." 

"In  which  case  I  should  merely  disappear  a  little  ear 
lier;"  and  he  sprang  overboard  up  to  his  knees,  dragged 
the  boat  till  it  was  sufficiently  fast  in  the  ooze  to  be  station 
ary,  then  he  waded  ashore. 

"Well,"  she  said  with  a  little  deprecatory  laugh,  "it's  a 
comfort  not  to  be  alone  on  a  desert  island." 

"Indeed !    Can  I  be  welcome  under  any  circumstances  ?" 

"Truly,  Mr.  Scofield,  you  know  that  you  were  never 
more  welcome.  It's  very  kind  of  you." 

"Any  man  would  be  glad  to  come  to  your  aid.  It  is 
merely  your  misfortune  that  I  happen  to  be  the  one." 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  regard  it  as  a  very  great  misfor 
tune.  You  proved  in  the  case  of  that  little  boy  that  you 
can  act  very  energetically. ' ' 

"And  get  lectured  for  my  intemperate  zeal.  Well,  Miss 
Madison,  I  cannot  make  a  very  pleasing  spectacle  with 
blackamoor  legs,  and  it's  time  I  put  my  superfluous  energy 
to  some  use.  Suppose  you  get  in  your  boat,  and  I'll  try  to 
push  it  off." 

She  complied  with  a  troubled  look  in  her  face.  He 
pushed  till  the  veins  knotted  on  his  forehead.  At  this  she 
sprang  out,  exclaiming,  "You'll  burst  a  blood-vessel." 

"That's  only  a  phase  of  a  ruptured  heart,  and  you  are 
used  to  such  phenomena." 

"It's  too  bad  for  you  to  talk  in  that  way,"  she  cried. 

"It  certainly  is.     I  will  now  attend  strictly  to  business." 


310  TAKEN   ALIVE:   AND    OTHER   STORIES 

"I  don't  see  what  you  can  do." 

"Carry  you  out  to  my  boat — that  is  all  I  can  do." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Scofield!" 

"Can  you  suggest  anything  else?" 

She  looked  dubiously  at  the  intervening  black  mud,  and 
was  silent. 

"1  could  go  up  to  the  hotel  and  bring  Mr.  Merriweather 
and  Mr.  Hackley. " 

She  turned  away  to  hide  her  tears. 

"Or  I  could  go  after  a  brawny  boatman;  but  delay  is 
serious,  for  the  tide  is  running  out  fast  and  the  stretch  of 
mud  growing  wider.  Can  you  not  imagine  me  Mike  or  Tim, 
or  some  fellow  of  that  sort." 

"No,  I  can't." 

"Then  perhaps  you  wish  me  to  go  for  Mike  or  Tim?" 

"But  the  tide  is  running  out  so  fast,  you  said." 

"Yes,  and  it  will  soon  be  dark." 

"Oh,  dear!"  and  there  was  distress  in  her  tones. 

He  now  said  kindly,  "Miss  Madison,  I  wish  that  like  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh  I  had  a  mantle  large  enough  for  you  to  walk 
over.  You  can  at  least  imagine  that  I  am  a  gentleman,  that 
you  may  soon  be  at  the  hotel,  and  no  one  ever  be  any  the 
wiser  that  you  had  to  choose  between  me  and  the  deep — ah, 
well — mud." 

"There  is  no  reason  for  such  an  allusion,  Mr.  Scofield." 

"Well,  then,  that  you  had  no  other  choice." 

"That's  better.  But  how  in  the  world  can  you  man 
age  it?" 

"You  will  have  to  put  your  arm  around  my  neck." 

"Oh!" 

"You  would  put  your  arm  around  a  post,  wouldn't 
you  ?"  he  asked  with  more  than  his  old  brusquenese. 

"Yes-s;  but—" 

"But  the  tide  is  going  out.  My  own  boat  will  soon  be 
fast.  Dinner  will  grow  cold  at  the  hotel,  and  you  are  only 
the  longer  in  dispensing  with  me.  You  must  consider  the 
other  dire  alternatives." 


CAUGHT   ON   THE   EBB-TIDE  311 

"Oh,  I  forgot  that  you  were  in  danger  of  losing  a  warm 
dinner. ' ' 

"You  know  I  have  lost  too  much  to  think  of  that  or 
much  else.  But  there  is  no  need  of  satire,  Miss  Madison. 
1  will  do  whatever  you  wish.  That  truly  is  carte  blanche 
enough  even  for  this  occasion." 

"I  didn't  mean  to  be  satirical.  I— I —  Well,  have  your 
own  way. ' ' 

"Not  if  you  prefer  some  other  way." 

"You  have  shown  that  practically  there  isn't  any  other 
way.  I'm  sorry  that  my  misfortune,  or  fault  rather,  should 
also  be  your  misfortune.  You  don't  know  how  heavy — " 

"I  soon  will,  and  you  must  endure  it  all  with  such  grace 
as  you  can.  Put  your  arm  round  my  neck,  so — oh,  that 
will  never  do!  Well,  you'll  hold  tight  enough  when  I'm 
floundering  in  the  mud»" 

Without  further  ado  he  picked  her  up,  and  started  rap 
idly  for  his  boat.  Stepping  on  a  smooth  stone  he  nearly 
fell,  and  her  arm  did  tighten  decidedly. 

"If  you  try  to  go  so  fast,"  she  said,  "you  will  fall." 

"I  was  only  seeking  to  shorten  your  ordeal,  but  for  obvi 
ous  reasons  must  go  slowly;"  and  he  began  feeling  his 
way. 

"Mr.  Scofield,  am  I  not  very  heavy  ?"  she  asked  softly. 

"Not  as  heavy  as  my  heart,  and  you  know  it." 

"I'm  sure  I—" 

"No,  you  are  not  to  blame.  Moths  have  scorched  their 
wings  before  now,  and  will  always  continue  to  do  so." 

Her  head  rested  slightly  against  his  shoulder;  her  breath 
fanned  his  cheek;  her  eyes,  soft  and  lustrous,  sought  his. 
But  he  looked  away  gloomy  and  defiant,  and  she  felt  his 
grasp  tighten  vise- like  around  her.  "I  shall  not  affect  any 
concealment  of  the  feelings  which  she  has  recognized  so 
often,  nor  shall  I  ask  any  favors, "  he  thought.  "There," 
he  said,  as  he  placed  her  in  his  boat,  "you  are  safe  enough 
now.  Now  go  aft  while  I  push  off." 

When  she  was  seated  he  exerted  himself  almost  as  greatly 


812  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

as  before,  and  the  boat  gradually  slid  into  the  water.  He 
sprang  in  and  took  the  oars. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  put  on  your  shoes  and  stockings  ?" 

"Certainly,  when  I  put  you  ashore." 

"Won't  that  be  a  pretty  certain  way  of  revealing  the 
plight  in  which  you  found  me?" 

"Pardon  my  stupidity;  I  was  preoccupied  with  the 
thought  of  relieving  you  from  the  society  which  you  have 
hitherto  avoided  so  successfully;"  and  bending  over  his 
shoes  he  tied  them  almost  savagely. 

There  was  a  wonderful  degree  of  mirth  and  tenderness 
in  her  eyes  as  she  watched  him.  They  had  floated  by  a  lit 
tle  point;  and  as  he  raised  his  head  he  saw  a  form  which 
he  recognized  as  Mr.  Merriweather  rowing  toward  them. 
"There  comes  one  of  your  shadows,"  he  said  mockingly. 
"Be  careful  how  you  exchange  boats  when  he  comes  along 
side.  I  will  give  you  no  help  in  such  a  case." 

She  looked  hastily  over  her  shoulder  at  the  approaching 
oarsman.  "I  think  it  will  be  safer  to  remain  in  your  boat," 
she  said. 

"Oh,  it  will  be  entirely  safe,"  he  replied  bitterly. 

"Mr.  Merriweather  must  have  seen  you  carrying  me." 

"That's  another  thing  which  I  can't  help." 

"Mr.  Scofield, "  she  began  softly. 

He  arrested  his  oars,  and  turned  wondering'  eyes  to  hers. 
They  were  sparkling  with  mirth  as  she  continued,  "Are 
you  satisfied  that  a  certain  young  woman  whom  you  once 
watched  very  narrowly  is  entirely  to  your  mind?" 

He  caught  her  mirthful  glance  and  misunderstood  her. 
"With  dignity  he  answered,  "I'm  not  the  first  man  who  blun 
dered  to  his  cost,  though  probably  it  would  have  made  no 
difference.  You  must  do  me  the  justice,  however,  to  admit 
that  I  did  not  maintain  the  role  of  observer  very  long — that 
I  wooed  you  so  openly  that  every  one  was  aware  of  my  suit. 
Is  it  not  a  trifle  cruel  to  taunt  me  after  I  had  made  such 
ample  amends?" 

"I  was  thinking  of  Mr.  Merriweather — " 


CAUGHT   ON    THE   EBB-TIDE  313 

"Undoubtedly  " 

"Since  he  has  seen  me  with  my  arm  around  your  neck 
— you  know  I  couldn't  help  it — perhaps  he  might  row  the 
other  way  if — if — well,  if  he  saw  you — what  shall  I  say — 
sitting  over  here — by  me — or —  Somehow  I  don't  feel  very 
hungry,  and  I  wouldn't  mind  spending  another  hour — " 

Scofield  nearly  upset  the  boat  in  his  precipitous  effort 
to  gain  a  seat  beside  her — and  Mr.  Merriweather  did  row 
another  way. 


14— ROB— XI 


CHRISTMAS   EVE   IN  WAR   TIMES 


IT  was  the  beginning  of  a  battle.  The  skirmish  line  of 
the  Union  advance  was  sweeping  rapidly  over  a  rough 
mountainous  region  in  the  South,  and  in  his  place  on 
the  extreme  left  of  this  line  was  Private  Anson  Marlow. 
Tall  trees  rising  from  underbrush,  rocks,  bowlders,  gulches 
worn  by  spring  torrents,  were  the  characteristics  of  the  field, 
which  was  in  wild  contrast  with  the  parade-grounds  on 
which  the  combatants  had  first  learned  the  tactics  of  war. ' 
.  The  majority,  however,  of  those  now  in  the  ranks  had  since 
been  drilled  too  often  under  like  circumstances,  and  with 
lead  and  iron  shotted  guns,  not  to  know  their  duty,  and  the 
lines  of  battle  were  as  regular  as  the  broken  country  allowed. 
So  far  as  many  obstacles  permitted,  Marlow  kept  his  proper 
distance  from  the  others  on  the  line  and  fired  coolly  when 
he  caught  glimpses  of  the  retreating  Confederate  skirmish 
ers.  They  were  retiring  with  ominous  readiness  toward  a 
wooded  height  which  the  enemy  occupied  with  a  force  of 
unknown  strength.  That  strength  was  soon  manifested  in 
temporary  disaster  to  the  Union  forces,  which  were  driven 
back  with  heavy  loss. 

Neither  the  battle  nor  its  fortunes  are  the  objects  of  our 
present  concern,  but  rather  the  fate  of  Private  Marlow. 
The  tide  of  battle  drifted  away  and  left  the  soldier  des 
perately  wounded  in  a  narrow  ravine,  through  which  bab 
bled  a  small  stream.  Excepting  the  voices  of  his  wife  and 
children  no  music  had  ever  sounded  so  sweetly  in  his  ears. 
With  great  difficulty  he  crawled  to  a  little  bubbling  pool 
formed  by  a  tiny  cascade  and  encircling  stones,  and  partially 
slaked  his  intolerable  thirst. 
(314) 


CHRISTMAS  EVE   IN   WAR    TIMES  315 

He  believed  he  was  dying — bleeding  to  death.  The  very 
thought  blunted  his  faculties  for  a  time;  and  he  was  con 
scious  of  little  beyond  a  dull  wonder.  Could  it  be  possible 
that  the  tragedy  of  his  death  was  enacting  in  that  peaceful, 
secluded  nook  ?  Could  Nature  be  so  indifferent  or  so  un 
conscious  if  it  were  true  that  he  was  soon  to  lie  there  dead  ? 
He  saw  the  speckled  trout  lying  motionless  at  the  bottom  of 
the  pool,  the  gray  squirrels  sporting  in  the  boughs  over  his 
head.  The  sunlight  shimmered  and  glinted  through  the 
leaves,  flecking  with  light  his  prostrate  form.  He  dipped 
his  hand  in  the  blood  that  had  welled  from  his  side,  and  it 
fell  in  rubies  from  his  fingers.  Could  that  be  his  blood — his 
life-blood;  and  would  it  soon  all  ooze  away?  Could  it  be 
that  death  was  coming  through  all  the  brightness  of  that 
Bummer  afternoon  ? 

From  a  shadowed  tree  further  up  the  glen,  a  wood- 
thrush  suddenly  began  its  almost  unrivalled  song.  The 
familiar  melody,  heard  so  often  from  his  cottage-porch  in 
the  June  twilight,  awoke  him  to  the  bitter  truth.  His  wife 
had  then  sat  beside  him,  while  his  little  ones  played  here 
and  there  among  the  trees  and  shrubbery.  They  would 
hear  the  same  song  to-day;  he  would  never  hear  it  again. 
That  counted  for  little;  but  the  thought  of  their  sitting 
behind  the  vines  and  listening  to  their  favorite  bird,  spring 
after  spring  and  summer  after  summer,  and  he  ever  absent, 
overwhelmed  him. 

"Oh,  Gertrude,  my  wife,  my  wife!  Oh,  my  children!" 
he  groaned. 

His  breast  heaved  with  a  great  sigh;  the  blood  welled 
afresh  from  his  wound;  what  seemed  a  mortal  weakness 
crept  over  him;  and  he  thought  he  died. 

"Say,  Eb,  is  he  done  gone?" 

"  'Clar  to  grashus  if  I  know.     'Pears  mighty  like  it." 
These  words  were  spoken  by  two  stout  negroes,  who  had 
stolen  to  the  battlefield  as  the  sounds  of  conflict  died  away. 
"I'm   doggoned  if  J  tink  dat  he's  dead.     He's  only 


816  TAKEN    ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

seconded,"  asserted  the  man  addressed  as  Eb.     "  'Twon't 

do  to  lebe  'im  here  to  die,  Zack." 

"Sartin  Dot;  we'd  hab  bad  luck  all  our  days." 

"I  reckon  ole  man  Pearson  will  keep  him;  and  his  wife's 

a  po'ful  nuss." 

"Pearson  orter;  he's  a  Unioner." 

"S'pose  we  try  him;   'tain't  so  bery  fur  off." 

On  the  morning  of  the  24th  of  December,  Mrs.  Anson 
Marlow  sat  in  the  living-room  of  her  cottage,  that  stood 
well  out  in  the  suburbs  of  a  Northern  town.  Her  eyes  were 
hollow  and  full  of  trouble  that  seemed  almost  beyond  tears, 
and  the  bare  room,  that  had  been  stripped  of  nearly  every 
appliance  and  suggestion  of  comfort,  but  too  plainly  indi 
cated  one  of  the  causes.  Want  was  stamped  on  her  thin 
face,  that  once  had  been  so  full  and  pretty;  poverty  in  its 
bitter  extremity  was  unmistakably  shown  by  the  uncarpeted 
floor,  the  meagre  fire,  and  scanty  furniture.  It  was  a  period 
of  depression;  work  had  been  scarce,  and  much  of  the  time 
she  had  been  too  ill  and  feeble  to  do  more  than  care  for  her 
children.  Away  back  in  August  her  resources  had  been 
running  low;  but  she  had  daily  expected  the  long  arrears 
of  pay  which  her  husband  would  receive  as  soon  as  the  exi 
gencies  of  the  campaign  permitted.  Instead  of  these  funds, 
so  greatly  needed,  came  the  tidings  of  a  Union  defeat,  with 
her  husband's  name  down  among  the  missing.  Beyond 
that  brief  mention,  so  horrible  in  its  vagueness,  she  had 
never  heard  a  word  from  the  one  who  not  only  sustained 
her  home,  but  also  her  heart.  Was  he  languishing  in  a 
Southern  prison,  or,  mortally  wounded,  had  he  lingered 
out  some  terrible  hours  on  that  wild  battlefield,  a  brief  de 
scription  of  which  had  been  so  dwelt  upon  by  her  morbid 
fancy  that  it  had  become  like  one  of  the  scenes  in  Dante's 
"Inferno"  ?  For  a  long  time  she  could  not  and  would  not 
believe  that  such  an  overwhelming  disaster  had  befallen  her 
and  her  children,  although  she  knew  that  similar  losses  had 
come  to  thousands  of  others.  Events  that  the  world  regards 


CHRISTMAS  EVE   IN    WAR    TIMES  317 

as  not  only  possible  but  probable  are  often  so  terrible  in 
their  personal  consequences  that  we  shrink  from  even  the 
bare  thought  of  their  occurrence. 

If  Mrs.  Marlow  had  been  told  from  the  first  that  her 
husband  was  dead,  the  shock  resulting  would  not  have 
been  so  injurious  as  the  suspense  that  robbed  her  of  rest 
for  days,  weeks,  and  months.  She  haunted  the  post-office, 
and  if  a  stranger  was  seen  coming  up  the  street  toward  her 
cottage  she  watched  feverishly  for  his  turning  in  at  her  gate 
with  the  tidings  of  her  husband's  safety.  Night  after  night 
she  lay  awake,  hoping,  praying  that  she  might  hear  his  step 
returning  on  a  furlough  to  which  wounds  or  sickness  had 
entitled  him.  The  natural  and  inevitable  result  was  illness 
and  nervous  prostration. 

Practical  neighbors  had  told  her  that  her  course  was  all 
wrong;  that  she  should  be  resigned  and  even  cheerful  for 
her  children's  sake;  that  she  needed  to  sleep  well  and  live 
well,  in  order  that  she  might  have  strength  to  provide  for 
them.  She  would  make  pathetic  attempts  to  follow  this 
sound  and  thrifty  advice,  but  suddenly  when  at  her  work 
or  in  her  troubled  sleep,  that  awful  word  "missing"  would 
pierce  her  heart  like  an  arrow,  and  she  would  moan,  and  at 
times  in  the  depths  of  her  anguish  cry  out,  "Oh,  where  is 
he  ?  Shall  I  ever  see  him  again  ?" 

But  the  unrelenting  demands  of  life  are  made  as  surely 
upon  the  breaking  as  upon  the  happy  heart.  She  and  her 
children  must  have  food,  clothing,  and  shelter.  Her  illness 
and  feebleness  at  last  taught  her  that  she  must  not  yield  to 
her  grief,  except  so  far  as  she  was  unable  to  suppress  it; 
that  for  the  sake  of  those  now  seemingly  dependent  upon 
her,  she  must  rally  every  shattered  nerve  and  every  relaxed 
muscle.  With  a  heroism  far  beyond  that  of  her  husband 
and  his  comrades  in  the  field,  she  sought  to  fight  the  wolf 
from  the  door,  or  at  least  to  keep  him  at  bay.  Although 
the  struggle  seemed  a  hopeless  one,  she  patiently  did  her 
best  from  day  to  day,  eking  out  her  scanty  earnings  by  the 
sale  or  pawning  of  such  of  her  household  goods  as  she  could 


818  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

best  spare.  She  felt  that  she  would  do  anything  rather  than 
reveal  her  poverty  or  accept  charity.  Some  help  was  more 
or  less  kindly  offered,  but  beyond  such  aid  as  one  neighbor 
may  receive  of  another,  she  had  said  gently  but  firmly, 
"Hot  yet." 

The  Marlows  were  comparative  strangers  in  the  city 
where  they  had  resided.  Her  husband  had  been  a  teacher 
in  one  of  its  public  schools,  and  his  salary  small.  Patriotism 
had  been  his  motive  for  entering  the  army,  and  while  it  had 
cost  him  a  mighty  struggle  to  leave  his  family,  he  felt  that 
he  had  no  more  reason  to  hold  back  than  thousands  of 
others.  He  believed  that  he  could  still  provide  for  those 
dependent  upon  him,  and  if  he  fell,  those  for  whom  he 
died  would  not  permit  his  widow  and  children  to  suffer. 
But  the  first  popular  enthusiasm  for  the  war  had  largely 
died  out;  the  city  was  full  of  widows  and  orphans;  there 
was  depression  of  spirit,  stagnation  in  business,  and  a  very 
general  disposition  on  the  part  of  those  who  had  means,  to 
take  care  of  themselves,  and  provide  for  darker  days  that 
might  be  in  the  immediate  future.  Sensitive,  retiring  Mrs. 
Marlow  was  not  the  one  to  push  her  claims  or  reveal  her 
need.  Moreover,  she  could  never  give  up  the  hope  that 
tidings  from  her  husband  might  at  any  time  bring  relief 
and  safety. 

But  the  crisis  had  come  at  last;  and  on  this  dreary 
December  day  she  was  face  to  face  with  absolute  want. 
The  wolf,  with  his  gaunt  eyes,  was  crouched  beside  her 
cold  hearth.  A  pittance  owed  to  her  for  work  had  not  been 
paid.  The  little  food  left  in  the  house  had  furnished  the 
children  an  unsatisfying  breakfast;  she  had  eaten  nothing. 
On  the  table  beside  her  lay  a  note  from  the  agent  of  the 
estate  of  which  her  home  was  a  part,  bidding  her  call  that 
morning.  She  knew  why — the  rent  was  two  months  in  ar 
rears.  It  seemed  like  death  to  leave  the  house  in  which 
her  husband  had  placed  her,  and  wherein  she  had  spent  her 
happiest  days.  It  stood  well  away  from  the  crowded  town. 
The  little  yard  and  garden,  with  their  trees,  vines,  and 


CHRISTMAS  EVE   IN    WAR    TIMES 

shrubbery,  some  of  which  her  husband  had  planted,  were 
all  dear  from  association.  In  the  rear  there  was  a  grove  and 
open  fields,  which,  though  not  belonging  to  the  cottage, 
were  not  forbidden  to  the  children;  and  they  formed  a 
wonderland  of  delight  in  spring,  summer,  and  fall.  Must 
she  take  her  active,  restless  boy  Jamie,  the  image  of  his 
father,  into  a  crowded  tenement?  Must  golden-haired 
Susie,  with  her  dower  of  beauty,  be  imprisoned  in  one 
close  room,  or  else  be  exposed  to  the  evil  of  corrupt  asso 
ciation  just  beyond  the  threshold  ? 

Moreover,  her  retired  home  had  become  a  refuge.  Here 
she  could  hide  her  sorrow  and  poverty.  Here  she  could 
touch  what  he  had  touched,  and  sit  during  the  long  winter 
evenings  in  his  favorite  corner  by  the  fire.  Around  her, 
within  and  without,  were  the  little  appliances  for  her  com 
fort  which  his  hands  had  made,  flow  could  she  leave  all 
this  and  live?  Deep  in  her  heart  also  the  hope  would 
linger  that  he  would  come  again  and  seek  her  where  he 
had  left  her. 

"0  God!"  she  cried  suddenly.  "Thou  wouldst  not, 
couldst  not  permit  him  to  die  without  one  farewell  word," 
and  she  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  rocked  back  and 
forth,  while  hard,  dry  sobs  shook  her  slight,  famine-pinched 
form. 

The  children  stopped  their  play  and  came  and  leaned 
upon  her  lap. 

"Don't  cry,  mother, "  said  Jamie,  a  little  boy  of  ten.  "I'll 
soon  be  big  enough  to  work  for  you;  and  I'll  get  rich,  and 
you  shall  have  the  biggest  house  in  town.  I'll  take  care 
of  you  if  papa  don't  come  back." 

Little  Sue  knew  not  what  to  say,  but  the  impulse  of  her 
love  was  her  best  guide.  She  threw  her  arms  around  her 
mother's  neck  with  such  an  impetuous  and  childlike  oat- 
burst  of  affection  that  the  poor  woman's  bitter  and  despair 
ing  thoughts  were  banished  for  a  time.  The  deepest  chord 
of  her  nature,  mother  love,  was  touched;  and  for  her  chil 
dren's  sake  she  rose  np  once  more  and  faced  the  hard  prob- 


320  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND   OTHER   STORIES 

lems  of  her  life.  Putting  on  her  bonnet  and  thin  shawl  (she 
had  parted  with  much  that  she  now  so  sorely  needed), 
she  went  out  into  the  cold  December  wind.  The  sky  was 
clouded  like  her  hopes,  and  the  light,  even  in  the  morning 
hours,  was  dim  and  leaden- hued. 

She  first  called  on  Mr.  Jackson,  the  agent  from  whom 
she  rented  her  home,  and  besought  him  to  give  her  a  little 
more  time. 

"I  will  beg  for  work  from  door  to  door,"  she  said. 
"Surely  in  this  Christian  city  there  must  be  those  who  will 
give  me  work;  and  that  is  all  I  ask." 

The  sleek,  comfortable  man,  in  his  well-appointed  office, 
was  touched  slightly,  and  said  in  a  voice  that  was  not  so 
gruff  as  he  at  first  had  intended  it  should  be: 

"Well,  I  will  wait  a  week  or  two  longer.  If  then  you 
cannot  pay  something  on  what  is  already  due,  my  duty  to 
my  employers  will  compel  me  to  take  the  usual  course. 
You  have  told  me  all  along  that  your  husband  would 
surely  return,  and  I  have  hated  to  say  a  word  to  discour 
age  you;  but  I  fear  you  will  have  to  bring  yourself  to  face 
the  truth  and  act  accordingly,  as  so  many  others  have  done. 
I  know  it's  very  hard  for  you,  but  I  am  held  responsible  by 
my  employer,  and  at  my  intercession  he  has  been  lenient, 
as  you  must  admit.  You  could  get  a  room  or  two  in  town 
for  half  what  you  must  pay  where  you  are.  Good-morn- 
ing." 

She  went  out  again  into  the  street,  which  the  shrouded 
sky  made  sombre  in  spite  of  preparations  seen  on  every 
side  for  the  chief  festival  of  the  year.  The  fear  was  grow 
ing  strong  that  like  Him  in  whose  memory  the  day  was 
honored,  she  and  her  little  ones  might  soon  not  know 
where  to  lay  their  heads.  She  succeeded  in  getting  the 
small  sum  owed  to  her  and  payment  also  for  some  sewing 
just  finished.  More  work  she  could  not  readily  obtain,  for 
every  one  was  busy  and  preoccupied  by  the  coming  day  of 
gladness. 

"Call  again,"  some  said  kindly  or  carelessly,  according 


CHRISTMAS  EVE   IN    WAR    TIMES  321 

to  their  nature.  "After  the  holidays  are  over  we  will  try 
to  have  or  make  some  work  for  you. ' ' 

"But  I  need — I  must  have  work  now,"  she  ventured  to 
say  whenever  she  had  the  chance. 

In  response  to  this  appeal  there  were  a  few  offers  of 
charity,  small  indeed,  but  from  which  she  drew  back  with 
an  instinct  so  strong  that  it  could  not  be  overcome.  On 
every  side  she  heard  the  same  story.  The  times  were  very 
hard;  requests  for  work  and  aid  had  been  so  frequent  that 
purses  and  patience  were  exhausted.  Moreover,  people  had 
spent  their  Christmas  money  on  their  households  and 
friends,  and  were  already  beginning  to  feel  poor. 

At  last  she  obtained  a  little  work,  and  having  made 
a  few  purchases  of  that  which  was  absolutely  essential, 
she  was  about  to  drag  her  weary  feet  homeward  when  the 
thought  occurred  to  her  that  the  children  would  want  to 
haag  up  their  stockings  at  night;  and  she  murmured :  "It 
may  be  the  last  chance  I  shall  ever  have  to  put  a  Christmas 
gift  in  them.  Oh,  that  I  were  stronger!  Oh,  that  I  could 
take  my 'sorrow  more  as  others  seem  to  take  theirs!  But  I 
cannot,  I  cannot!  My  burden  is  greater  than  I  can  bear. 
The  cold  of  this  awful  day  is  chilling  my  very  heart,  and 
my  grief,  as  hope  dies,  is  crushing  my  soul.  Oh,  he  must 
be  dead,  he  must  be  dead!  That  is  what  they  all  think. 
God  help  my  little  ones!  Oh,  what  will  become  of  them 
if  I  sink,  as  I  fear  I  shall !  If  it  were  not  for  them  I  feel 
as  if  I  would  fall  and  die  here  in  the  street.  Well,  be  our 
fate  what  it  may,  they  shall  owe  to  me  one  more  gleam  of 
happiness;"  and  she  went  into  a  confectioner's  shop  and 
bought  a  few  ornamented  cakes.  These  were  the  only  gifts 
she  could  afford,  and  they  must  be  in  the  form  of  food. 

Before  she  reached  home  the  snow  was  whirling  in  the 
frosty  air,  and  the  shadows  of  the  brief  winter  day  deepen 
ing  fast.  With  a  smile  far  more  pathetic  than  tears  she 
greeted  the  children,  who  were  cold,  hungry,  and  fright 
ened  at  her  long  absence;  and  they,  children- like,  saw  only 
the  smile,  and  not  the  grief  it  masked.  They  saw  also  the 


322  TAKEN   ALIVE:   AND    OTHER   STORIES 

basket  which  she  had  placed  on  the  table,  and  were  quick 
to  note  that  it  seemed  a  little  fuller  than  of  late. 

"Jamie,"  she  said,  "run  to  the  store  down  the  street  for 
some  coal  and  kindlings  that  I  bought,  and  then  we  will 
have  a  good  fire  and  a  nice  supper;"  and  the  boy,  at  such 
a  prospect,  eagerly  obeyed. 

She  was  glad  to  have  him  gone,  that  she  might  hide  her 
weakness.  She  sank  into  a  chair,  so  white  and  faint  that 
even  little  Susie  left  off  peering  into  the  basket,  and  came 
to  her  with  a  troubled  face. 

"It's  nothing,  dearie,"  the  poor  creature  said.  "Mam 
ma's  only  a  little  tired.  See,"  she  added,  tottering  to  the 
table,  "I  have  brought  you  a  great  piece  of  gingerbread." 

The  hungry  child  grasped  it,  and  was  oblivious  and 
happy. 

By  the  time  Jamie  returned  with  his  first  basket  of 
kindling. and  coal,  the  mother  had  so  far  rallied  from  her 
exhaustion  as  to  meet  him  smilingly  again  and  help  him 
replenish  the  dying  fire. 

"Now  you  shall  rest  and  have  your  gingerbread  before 
going  for  your  second  load, ' '  she  said  cheerily ;  and  the  boy 
took  what  was  ambrosia  to  him,  and  danced  around  the 
room  in  joyous  reaction  from  the  depression  of  the  long 
weary  day,  during  which,  lonely  and  hungry,  he  had  won 
dered  why  his  mother  did  not  return. 

"So  little  could  make  them  happy,  and  yet  I  cannot 
seem  to  obtain  even  that  little,"  she  sighed.  "I  fear — in 
deed,  I  fear — I  cannot  be  with  them  another  Christmas; 
therefore  they  shall  remember  that  I  tried  to  make  them 
happy  once  more,  and  the  recollection  may  survive  the  long 
sad  days  before  them,  and  become  a  part  of  my  memory. ' ' 

The  room  was  now  growing  dark,  and  she  lighted  the 
lamp.  Then  she  cowered  shiveringly  over  the  reviving  fire, 
feeling  as  if  she  could  never  be  warm  again. 

The  street-lamps  were  lighted  early  on  that  clouded, 
stormy  evening,  and  they  were  a  signal  to  Mr.  Jackson, 
the  agent,  to  leave  his  office.  He  remembered  that  he  had 


CHRISTMAS  EVE   IN    WAR    TIMES  323 

ordered  a  holiday  dinner,  and  now  found  himself  in  a  mood 
to  enjoy  it  He  had  scarcely  left  his  door  before  a  man, 
coming  up  the  street  with  great  strides  and  head  bent  down 
to  the  snow- laden  blast,  brushed  roughly  against  him.  The 
stranger's  cap  was  drawn  over  his  eyes,  and  the  raised  collar 
of  his  blue  army  overcoat  nearly  concealed  his  face.  The 
man  hurriedly  begged  pardon,  and  was  hastening  on  when 
Mr.  Jackson's  exclamation  of  surprise  caused  him  to  stop 
and  look  at  the  person  he  had  jostled. 

"Why,  Mr.  Marlow,"  the  agent  began,  "I'm  glad  to  see 
you.  It's  a  pleasure  I  feared  I  should  never  have  again." 

"My  wife,"  the  man  almost  gasped,  "she's  still  in  the 
house  I  rented  of  you?" 

"Oh,  certainly,"  was  the  hasty  reply.  "It'll  be  all  right 
now." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?      Has  it  not  been  all  right ?" 

"Well,  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Jackson,  apologetically,  "we 
have  been  very  lenient  to  your  wife,  but  the  rent  has  not 
been  paid  for  over  two  months,  and — " 

"And  you  were  about  to  turn  her  and  her  children  out- 
of-doors  in  midwinter,"  broke  in  the  soldier,  wrathfully. 
"That  is  the  way  you  sleek,  comfortable  stay-at-home 
people  care  for  those  fighting  your  battles.  After  you 
concluded  that  I  was  dead,  and  that  the  rent  might  not 
be  forthcoming,  you  decided  to  put  my  wife  into  the  street. 
Open  your  office,  sir,  and  you  shall  have  your  rent." 

"Now,  Mr.  Marlow,  there's  no  cause  for  pitching  into 
me  in  this  way.  You  know  that  I  am  but  an  agent,  and — " 

"Tell  your  rich  employer,  then,  what  I  have  said,  and 
ask  him  what  he  would  be  worth  to-day  were  there  not  men 
like  myself,  who  are  willing  to  risk  everything  and  suffer 
everything  for  the  Union.  But  1  ve  no  time  to  bandy 
words.  Have  you  seen  my  wife  lately?" 

"Yes,"  was  the  hesitating  reply;  "she  was  here  to 
day,  and  I — " 

"How  is  she?     What  did  you  say  to  her?" 

"Well,  she  doesn't  look  very  strong.     I  felt  sorry  for 


824  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

her,  and  gave  her  more  time,  taking  the  responsibility 
myself — " 

"How  much  time?'* 

"I  said  two  weeks,  but  no  doubt  I  could  have  had  the 
time  extended." 

"I  have  my  doubts.  Will  you  and  your  employer  please 
accept  my  humble  gratitude  that  you  had  the  grace  not  to 
turn  her  out-of-doors  during  the  holiday  season?  It  might 
have  caused  remark;  but  that  consideration  and  some  oth 
ers  that  I  might  name  are  not  to  be  weighed  against  a  few 
dollars  and  cents.  I  shall  now  remove  the  strain  upon  your 
patriotism  at  once,  and  will  not  only  pay  arrears,  but  also 
for  two  months  in  advance." 

"Oh,  there's  no  need  of  that  to-day." 

"Yes,  there  is.  My  wife  shall  feel  to-night  that  she  has 
a  home.  She  evidently  has  not  received  the  letter  I  wrote 
as  soon  as  I  reached  our  lines,  or  you  would  not  have  been 
talking  to  her  about  two  weeks  more  of  shelter." 

The  agent  reopened  his  office  and  saw  a  roll  of  bills  ex 
tracted  from  Marlow's  pocket  that  left  no  doubt  of  the  sol 
dier's  ability  to  provide  for  his  family,  fie  gave  his  receipt 
in  silence,  feeling  that  words  would  not  mend  matters,  and 
then  trudged  off  to  his  dinner  with  a  flagging  appetite. 

As  Marlow  strode  away  he  came  to  a  sudden  resolution 
— he  would  look  upon  his  wife  and  children  before  they  saw 
him;  he  would  feast  his  eyes  while  they  were  unconscious 
of  the  love  that  was  beaming  upon  them.  The  darkness 
and  storm  favored  his  project,  and  in  brief  time  he  saw  the 
light  in  his  window.  Unlatching  the  gate  softly,  and  with 
his  steps  muffled  by  the  snow  that  already  carpeted  the 
frozen  ground,  he  reached  the  window,  the  blinds  of  which 
were  but  partially  closed.  His  children  frolicking  about 
the  room  were  the  first  objects  that  caught  his  eye,  and  he 
almost  laughed  aloud  in  his  joy.  Then,  by  turning  another 
blind  slightly,  he  saw  his  wife  shivering  over  the  fire. 

"Great  God!"  he  muttered,  "how  she  has  suffered!"  and 
he  was  about  to  rush  in  and  take  her  into  his  arms.  On  the 


CHRISTMAS  EVE   IN    WAR    TIMES  325 

threshold  he  restrained  himself,  paused,  and  said,  "No,  not 
yet;  I'll  break  the  news  of  my  return  in  my  own  way.  The 
shock  of  my  sudden  appearance  might  be  too  great  for  her;" 
and  he  went  back  to  the  window.  The  wife's  eyes  were  fol 
lowing  her  children  with  such  a  wistful  tenderness  that  the 
boy,  catching  her  gaze,  stopped  his  sport,  came  to  her  side, 
and  began  to  speak.  They  were  but  a  few  feet  away,  and 
Marlow  caught  every  word. 

"Mamma,"  the  child  said,  "you  didn't  eat  any  break 
fast,  and  I  don't  believe  you  have  eaten  anything  to-day. 
You  are  always  giving  everything  to  us.  Now  I  declare  I 
won't  eat  another  bit  unless  you  take  half  of  my  cake;" 
and  he  broke  off  a  piece  and  laid  it  in  her  lap. 

"Oh,  Jamie,"  cried  the  poor  woman,  "you  looked  so  like 
your  father  when  you  spoke  that  I  could  almost  see  him;" 
and  she  caught  him  in  her  arms  and  covered  him  with  kisses. 

"I'll  soon  be  big  enough  to  take  care  of  you.  I'm  going 
to  grow  up  just  like  papa  and  do  everything  for  you,"  the 
boy  said  proudly  as  she  released  him. 

Little  Susie  also  came  and  placed  what  was  left  of  her 
cake  in  her  mother's  lap,  saying: 

"I'll  work  for  you,  too,  mamma;  and  to-morrow  I'll  sell 
the  doll  Santa  Glaus  gave  me  last  Christmas,  and  then  we'll 
all  have  plenty  to  eat. ' ' 

Anson  Marlow  was  sobbing  outside  the  window  as  only 
a  man  weeps;  and  his  tears  in  the  bitter  cold  became  drops 
of  ice  before  they  reached  the  ground. 

"My  darlings!"  the  mother  cried.  "Oh,  God  spare  me 
to  you  and  provide  some  way  for  us!  Your  love  should 
make  me  rich  though  I  lack  all  else.  There,  I  won't  cry 
any  more,  and  you  shall  have  as  happy  a  Christmas  as  I  can 
give  you.  Perhaps  He  who  knew  what  it  was  to  be  home 
less  and  shelterless  will  provide  for  our  need;  so  we'll  try 
to  trust  Him  and  keep  His  birthday.  And  now,  Jamie,  go 
and  bring  the  rest  of  the  coal,  and  then  we  will  make  the 
dear  home  that  papa  gave  us  cheery  and  warm  once  more. 
If  he  were  only  with  us  we  wouldn't  mind  hunger  or  cold, 


326  TAKEN    ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

would  we?  Oh,  my  husband!"  she  broke  out  afresh,  "if 
you  could  only  come  back,  even  though  crippled  and  help 
less,  I  feel  that  I  could  live  and  grow  strong  from  simple 
gladness. ' ' 

"Don't  you  think,  mamma,"  Jamie  asked,  "that  God 
will  let  papa  come  down  from  heaven  and  spend  Christmas 
with  us  ?  He  might  be  here  like  the  angels,  and  we  not  see 
him." 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  the  sad  woman  replied,  shaking  her 
head  and  speaking  more  to  herself  than  to  the  child.  "I 
dont  see  how  he  could  go  back  to  heaven  and  be  happy  if 
he  knew  all.  No,  we  must  be  patient  and  try  to  do  our 
best,  so  that  we  can  go  to  him.  Go  now,  Jamie,  before  it 
gets  too  late.  I'll  get  supper,  and  then  we'll  sing  a  Christ 
mas  hymn;  and  you  and  Susie  shall  hang  up  your  stock 
ings,  just  as  you  did  last  Christmas,  when  dear  papa  was 
with  us.  We'll  try  to  do  everything  he  would  wish,  and 
then  by  and  by  we  shall  see  him  again." 

As  the  boy  started  on  his  errand  his  father  stepped  back 
out  of  the  light  of  the  window,  then  followed  the  child  with 
a  great  yearning  in  his  heart.  He  would  make  sure  the  boy 
was  safe  at  home  again  before  he  carried  out  his  plan.  From 
a  distance  lie  saw  the  little  fellow  receive  the  coal  and  start 
slowly  homeward  with  the  burden,  and  he  followed  to  a  point 
where  the  light  of  the  street-lamps  ceased,  then  joined  the 
child,  and  said  in  a  gruff  voice,  "Here,  little  man,  I'm  going 
your  way.  Let  me  carry  your  basket;"  and  he  took  it  and 
strode  on  so  fast  that  the  boy  had  to  run  to  keep  pace  with 
him.  Jamie  shuffled  along  through  the  snow  as  well  as  he 
could,  but  his  little  legs  were  so  short  in  comparison  with 
those  of  the  kindly  stranger  that  he  found  himself  gradually 
falling  behind.  So  he  put  on  an  extra  burst  of  speed  and 
managed  to  lay  hold  of  the  long  blue  skirt  of  the  army 
overcoat. 

"Please,  sir,  don't  go  quite  so  fast,"  he  panted. 

The  stranger  slackened  his  pace,  and  in  a  constrained 
tone  of  voice,  asked: 


CHRISTMAS  EVE   IN    WAR    TIMES  327 

"How  far  are  you  going,  little  man?" 

"Only  to  our  house — mamma's.  She's  Mrs.  Marlow, 
you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know — that  is,  I  reckon  I  do.  How  much  fur 
ther  is  it?" 

"Oh,  not  much;  we're  most  half-way  now.  I  say,  you're 
a  soldier,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes,  my  boy,"  said  Marlow,  with  a  lump  in  his  throat. 
"Why?" 

"Well,  you  see,  my  papa  is  a  soldier,  too,  and  1  thought 
you  might  know  him.  We  haven't  heard  from  him  for  a 
good  while,  and — "  choking  a  bit — "mamma's  afraid  he  is 
hurt,  or  taken  prisoner  or  something. ' '  He  could  not  bring 
himself  to  say  "killed." 

Jamie  let  go  the  overcoat  to  draw  his  sleeve  across  his 
eyes,  and  the  big  man  once  more  strode  on  faster  than  ever, 
and  Jamie  began  to  fear  lest  the  dusky  form  might  disap 
pear  in  the  snow  and  darkness  with  both  basket  and  coal; 
but  the  apparent  stranger  so  far  forgot  his  part  that  he  put 
down  the  basket  at  Mrs.  Marlow 's  gate,  and  then  passed  on 
so  quickly  that  the  panting  boy  had  not  time  to  thank  him. 
Indeed,  Anson  Marlow  knew  that  if  he  lingered  but  a  mo 
ment  he  would  have  the  child  in  his  arms. 

"Why,  Jamie,"  exclaimed  his  mother,  "how  could  you 
get  back  so  soon  with  that  heavy  basket  ?  It  was  too  heavy 
for  you,  but  you  will  have  to  be  mamma's  little  man 
now. ' ' 

"A  big  man  caught  up  with  me  and  carried  it.  I  don't 
care  if  he  did  have  a  gruff  voice,  I'm  sure  he  was  a  good 
kind  man.  He  knew  where  we  lived  too,  for  he  put  the 
basket  down  at  our  gate  before  I  could  say  a  word,  I  was 
so  out  of  breath,  and  then  he  was  out  of  sight  in  a  minute." 
Some  instinct  kept  him  from  saying  anything  about  the 
army  overcoat. 

"It's  some  neighbor  that  lives  further  up  the  street,  I 
suppose,  and  saw  you  getting  the  coal  at  the  store,"  Mrs. 
Marlow  said.  ' '  Yes,  Jamie,  it  was  a  good,  kind  act  to  help 


828  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

a  little  boy,  and  I  think  he'll  have  a  happier  Christmas  for 
doing  it." 

"Do  you  really  think  he'll  have  a  happier  Christmas, 
mamma  ?' ' 

"Yes,  I  truly  think  so.  We  are  so  made  that  we  cannot 
do  a  kind  act  without  feeling  the  better  for  it." 

"Well,  I  think  he  was  a  queer  sort  of  a  man  if  he  was 
kind.  I  never  knew  any  one  to  walk  so  fast.  I  spoke  to 
him  once,  but  he  did  not  answer.  Perhaps  the  wind  roared 
so  he  couldn't  hear  me." 

"No  doubt  he  was  hurrying  home  to  his  wife  and  chil 
dren,  ' '  she  said  with  a  deep  sigh. 

When  his  boy  disappeared  within  the  door  of  the  cot 
tage,  Marlow  turned  and  walked  rapidly  toward  the  city, 
first  going  to  the  grocery  at  which  he  had  been  in  the  habit 
of  purchasing  his  supplies.  The  merchant  stared  for  a 
moment,  then  stepped  forward,  and  greeted  his  customer 
warmly. 

"Well,"  he  said,  after  his  first  exclamations  of  surprise 
were  over,  "the  snow  has  made  you  almost  as  white  as  a 
ghost;  but  I'm  glad  you're  not  one.  We  scarce  ever  thought 
to  see  you  again." 

"Has  my  wife  an  open  account  here  now  ?"  was  the  brief 
response. 

"Yes,  and  it  might  have  been  much  larger.  I've  told 
her  so  too.  She  stopped  taking  credit  some  time  ago,  and 
when  she's  had  a  dollar  or  two  to  spare  she's  paid  it  on  the 
old  score.  She  bought  so  little  that  I  said  to  her  once  that 
she  need  not  go  elsewhere  to  buy;  that  I'd  sell  to  her  as  cheap 
as  any  one;  that  I  believed  you'd  come  back  all  right,  and 
if  you  didn't  she  could  pay  me  when  she  could.  What  do 
you  think  she  did?  Why,  she  burst  out  crying,  and  said, 
'God  bless  you,  sir,  for  saying  my  husband  will  come  back! 
So  many  have  discouraged  me. '  I  declare  to  you  her  feel 
ing  was  so  right  down  genuine  that  I  had  to  mop  my  own 
eyes.  But  she  wouldn't  take  any  more  credit,  and  she 
bought  so  little  that  I've  been  troubled.  I'd  have  sent 


CHRISTMAS  EVE   IN    WAR    TIMES  329 

her  something,  but  your  wife  somehow  ain't  one  of  them 
kind  that  you  can  give  things  to,  and — " 

Marlow  interrupted  the  good- hearted,  garrulous  shopman 
by  saying  significantly,  "Come  with  me  to  your  back-office" ; 
for  the  soldier  feared  that  some  one  might  enter  who  would 
recognize  him  and  carry  the  tidings  to  his  home  prema 
turely. 

"Mr.  Wilkins,"  he  said  rapidly,  "1  wanted  to  find  out  if 
you  too  had  thriftily  shut  down  on  a  soldier's  wife.  You 
shall  not  regret  your  kindness." 

"Hang  it  all!"  broke  in  Wilkins,  with  compunction,  "I 
haven't  been  very  kind.  I  ought  to  have  gone  and  seen 
your  wife  and  found  out  how  things  were;  and  I  meant  to, 
but  I've  been  so  confoundedly  busy — " 

"No  matter  now;  I've  not  a  moment  to  spare.  You 
must  help  me  to  break  the  news  of  my  return  in  my  own 
way.  I  mean  they  shall  have  such  a  Christmas  in  the  little 
cottage  as  was  never  known  in  this  town.  You  could  send 
a  load  right  over  there,  couldn't  you  ?" 

"Certainly,  certainly,"  said  Wilkins,  under  the  impulse 
of  both  business  thrift  and  goodwill;  and  a  list  of  tea,  cof 
fee,  sugar,  flour,  bread,  cakes,  apples,  etc.,  was  dashed  off 
rapidly;  and  Marlow  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  the 
errand-boy,  the  two  clerks,  and  the  proprietor  himself 
busily  working  to  fill  the  order  in  the  shortest  possible 
space  of  time. 

He  next  went  to  a  restaurant,  a  little  further  down  the 
street,  where  he  had  taken  his  meals  for  a  short  time  before 
he  brought  his  family  to  town,  and  was  greeted  with  almost 
equal  surprise  and  warmth.  Marlow  cut  short  all  words  by 
his  almost  feverish  haste.  A  huge  turkey  had  just  been 
roasted  for  the  needs  of  the  coming  holiday,  and  this  with 
a  cold  ham  and  a  pot  of  coffee  was  ordered  to  be  sent  in  a 
covered  tray  within  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Then  a  toy-shop 
was  visited,  and  such  a  doll  purchased !  for  tears  came  into 
Marlow's  eyes  whenever  he  thought  of  his  child's  offer  to 
sell  her  dolly  for  her  mother's  sake. 


330  TAKEN    ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

After  selecting  a  sled  for  Jamie,  and  directing  that  they 
should  be  sent  at  once,  he  could  restrain  his  impatience  no 
longer,  and  almost  tore  back  to  his  station  at  the  cottage 
window.  His  wife  was  placing  the  meagre  little  supper  on 
the  table,  and  how  poor  and  scanty  it  was! 

"Is  that  the  best  the  dear  soul  can  do  on  Christmas 
Eve?"  he  groaned.  "Why,  there's  scarcely  enough  for 
little  Sue.  Thank  God,  my  darling,  I  will  sit  down  with 
you  to  a  rather  different  supper  before  long!" 

He  bowed  his  head  reverently  with  his  wife  as  she  asked 
God's  blessing,  and  wondered  at  her  faith.  Then  he  looked 
and  listened  again  with  a  heart- hunger  which  had  been  grow 
ing  for  months. 

"Do  you  really  think  Santa  Glaus  will  fill  our  stockings 
to-night?"  Sue  asked. 

"I  think  he'll  have  something  for  you,1'  she  replied. 
"There  are  so  many  poor  little  boys  and  girls  in  the  city 
that  he  may  not  be  able  to  bring  very  much  to  you." 

"Who  is  Santa  Glaus,  anyway?"  questioned  Jamie. 
•    Tears  came  into  the  wife's  eyes  as  she  thought  of  the  one 
who  had  always  remembered  them  so  kindly  as  far  as  his 
modest  means  permitted. 

She  hesitated  in  her  reply ;  and  before  she  could  decide 
upon  an  answer  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  Jamie  ran 
to  open  it,  and  started  back  as  a  man  entered  with  cap,  eye 
brows,  beard,  and  shaggy  coat  all  white  with  the  falling 
snow.  He  placed  two  great  baskets  of  provisions  on  the 
floor,  and  said  they  were  for  Mrs.  Anson  Marlow. 

"There  is  some  mistake,"  Mrs.  Marlow  began;  but  the 
children,  after  staring  a  moment,  shouted,  "Santa  Glaus! 
Santa  Glaus!" 

The  grocer's  man  took  the  unexpected  cue  instantly,  and 
said,  "No  mistake,  ma'am.  They  are  from  Santa  Glaus;" 
and  before  another  word  could  be  spoken  he  was  gone. 
The  face  of  the  grocer's  man  was  not  very  familiar  to  Mrs. 
Marlow,  and  the  snow  had  disguised  him  completely.  The 
children  had  no  misgivings  and  pounced  upon  the  baskets 


CHRISTMAS  EVE   IN    WAR    TIMES  331 

and  with  exclamations  of  delight  drew  out  such  articles  as 
they  could  lift. 

"I  can't  understand  it,"  said  the  mother,  bewildered  and 
almost  frightened. 

"Why,  mamma,  it's  as  plain  as  day,"  cried  Jamie. 
"Didn't  he  look  just  like  the  pictures  of  Santa  Glaus — 
white  beard  and  white  eyebrows?  Oh,  mamma,  mamma, 
here  is  a  great  paper  of  red-cheeked  apples!"  and  he  and 
Susie  tugged  at  it  until  they  dragged  it  over  the  side  of  the 
basket,  when  the  bottom  of  the  bag  came  out,  and  the  fruit 
flecked  the  floor  with  red  and  gold.  Oh,  the  bliss  of  pick 
ing  up  those  apples;  of  comparing  one  with  another;  of 
running  to  the  mother  and  asking  which  was  the  biggest 
and  which  the  reddest  and  most  beautifully  streaked ! 

"There  must  have  been  some  mistake,"  the  poor  woman 
kept  murmuring  as  she  examined  the  baskets  and  found  how 
liberal  and  varied  was  the  supply,  "for  who  could  or  would 
have  been  so  kind  ?" 

"Why,  mommie,"  said  little  Sue,  reproachfully,  "Santa 
Glaus  brought  'em.  Haven't  you  always  told  us  that  Santa 
Glaus  liked  to  make  us  happy?" 

The  long-exiled  father  felt  that  he  could  restrain  himself 
but  a  few  moments  longer,  and  he  was  glad  to  see  that  the 
rest  of  his  purchases  were  at  the  door.  With  a  look  so  in 
tent,  and  yearning  concentration  of  thought  so  intense  that 
it  was  strange  that  they  could  not  feel  his  presence,  he  bent 
his  eyes  once  more  upon  a  scene  that  would  imprint  itself 
upon  his  memory  forever. 

But  while  he  stood  there,  another  scene  came  before  his 
mental  vision.  Oddly  enough  his  thought  went  back  to 
that  far-off  Southern  brookside,  where  he  had  lain  with  his 
hands  in  the  cool  water.  He  leaned  against  the  window- 
casing,  with  the  Northern  snow  whirling  about  his  head; 
but  he  breathed  the  balmy  breath  of  a  Southern  forest,  the 
wood-thrush  sang  in  the  trees  overhead,  and  he  could — s.o 
it  seemed  to  him — actually  feel  the  water-worn  pebbles  under 
his  palms  as  he  watched  the  life-blood  ebbing  from  his  side. 


332  TAKEN    ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

Then  there  was  a  dim  consciousness  of  rough  but  kindly 
arms  bearing  him  through  the  underbrush,  and  more  dis 
tinctly  the  memory  of  weary  weeks  of  convalescence  in  a 
mountaineer's  cabin.  All  these  scenes  of  peril,  before  he 
finally  reached  the  Union  lines,  passed  before  him  as  he 
stood  in  a  species  of  trance  beside  the  window  of  his 
home. 

The  half-grown  boys  sent  from  the  restaurant  and  toy 
shop  could  not  be  mistaken  for  Santa  Glaus  even  by  the 
credulous  fancy  of  the  children,  and  Mrs.  Marlow  stepped 
forward  eagerly  and  said: 

"I  am  sure  there  is  some  mistake.  You  are  certainly 
leaving  these  articles  at  the  wrong  house. ' '  The  faces  of 
the  children  began  to  grow  anxious  and  troubled  also,  for 
even  their  faith  could  not  accept  such  marvellous  good-for 
tune.  Jamie  looked  at  the  sled  with  a  kind  of  awe,  and  saw 
at  a  glance  that  it  was  handsomer  than  any  in  the  street. 
"Mr.  Lansing,  a  wealthy  man,  lives  a  little  further  on," 
Mrs.  Marlow  began  to  urge;  "and  these  things  must  be 
meant — " 

"Isn't  your  name  Mrs.  Anson  Marlow?"  asked  the  boy 
from  the  restaurant. 

"Yes." 

"Then  I  must  do  as  I've  been  told;"  and  he  opened  his 
tray  and  placed  the  turkey,  the  ham,  and  the  coffee  on  the 
table. 

"If  he's  right,  I'm  right  too,"  said  he  of  the  toy-shop. 
"Them  was  my  directions;"  and  they  were  both  about  to 
depart  when  the  woman  sprang  forward  and  gasped: 
"Stay!" 

She  clasped  her  hands  and  trembled  violently. 

"Who  sent  these  things?"  she  faltered. 

"Our  bosses,  mum,"  replied  the  boy  from  the  restaurant, 
hesitatingly. 

She  sprang  toward  him,  seized  his  arm,  and  looked  im 
ploringly  into  his  face.  "Who  ordered  them  sent?"  she 
asked  in  a  low,  passionate  voice. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE   IN    WAR    TIMES  338 

The  young  fellow  began  to  smile,  and  stammered  awk 
wardly,  "I  don't  think  I'm  to  tell." 

She  released  his  arm  and  glanced  around  with  a  look  of 
intense  expectation. 

"Oh,  oh!"  she  gasped  with  quick  short  sobs,  "can  it 
be — "  Then  she  sprang  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  looked 
out  into  the  black,  stormy  night.  What  seemed  a  shadow 
rushed  toward  her;  she  felt  herself  falling,  but  strong  arms 
caught  and  bore  her,  half  fainting,  to  a  lounge  within  the 
room. 

Many  have  died  from  sorrow,  but  few  from  joy.  With 
her  husband's  arms  around  her  Mrs.  Marlow's  weakness 
soon  passed.  In  response  to  his  deep,  earnest  tones  of 
soothing  and  entreaty,  she  speedily  opened  her  eyes  and 
gave  him  a  smile  so  full  of  content  and  unutterable  joy 
that  all  anxiety  in  her  behalf  began  to  pass  from  his  mind. 

"Yes,"  she  said  softly,  "I  can  live  now.  It  seems  as  if 
a  new  and  stronger  life  were  coming  back  with  every  breath. " 

The  young  fellows  who  had  been  the  bearers  of  the  gifts 
were  so  touched  that  they  drew  their  rough  sleeves  across 
their  eyes  as  they  hastened  away,  closing  the  door  on  the 
happiest  family  in  the  city. 


A  BRAVE  LITTLE   QUAKERESS 

A   TRADITION    OF   THE    REVOLUTION 


NOT  very  far  from  the  Highlands  of  the  Hudson,  but 
at  a  considerable  distance  from  the  river,  there 
stood,  one  hundred  years  ago,  a  farmhouse  that 
evidently  had  been  built  as  much  for  strength  and  defence 
as  for  comfort.  The  dwelling  was  one  story  and  a  half  in 
height,  and  was  constructed  of  hewn  logs,  fitted  closely  to 
gether,  and  made  impervious  to  the  weather  by  old-fash 
ioned  mortar,  which  seems  to  defy  the  action  of  time.  Two 
entrances  facing  each  other  led  to  the  main  or  living  room, 
and  they  were  so  large  that  a  horse  could  pass  through 
them,  dragging  in  immense  back-logs.  These,  having  been 
detached  from  a  chain  when  in  the  proper  position,  were 
rolled  into  the  huge  fireplace  that  yawned  like  a  sooty 
cavern  at  the  farther  end  of  the  apartment.  A  modern 
housekeeper,  who  finds  wood  too  dear  an  article  for  even 
the  air-tight  stove,  would  be  appalled  by  this  fireplace. 
Stalwart  Mr.  Eeynolds,  the  master  of  the  house,  could 
easily  walk  under  its  stony  arch  without  removing  his 
broad-brimmed  Quaker  hat.  From  the  left  side,  and  at  a 
convenient  height  from  the  hearth,  a  massive  crane  swung 
in  and  out;  while  high  above  the  centre  of  the  fire  was  an 
iron  hook,  or  trammel,  from  which  by  chains  were  sus 
pended  the  capacious  iron  pots  used  in  those  days  for  culi 
nary  or  for  stock-feeding  purposes.  This  trammel,  which 
hitherto  had  suggested  only  good  cheer,  was  destined  to 
have  in  coming  years  a  terrible  significance  to  the  house 
hold. 
(334 


A    BRAVE   LITTLE    QUAKERESS  335 

When  the  blaze  was  moderate,  or  the  bed  of  live  coals 
not  too  ample,  the  children  could  sit  on  either  side  of  the 
fireplace  and  watch  the  stars  through  its  wide  flue;  and  this 
was  a  favorite  amusement  of  Phebe  Reynolds,  the  eldest 
daughter  of  the  house. 

A  door  opened  from  the  living-room  into  the  other 
apartments,  furnished  in  the  old  massive  style  that  out 
lasts  many  generations.  All  the  windows  were  protected 
by  stout  oaken  shutters  which,  when  closed,  almost  trans 
formed  the  dwelling  into  a  fortress,  giving  security  against 
any  ordinary  attack.  There  were  no  loopholes  in  the  walls 
through  which  the  muzzle  of  the  deadly  rifle  could  be  thrust 
and  fired  from  within.  This  feature,  so  common  in  the  primi 
tive  abodes  of  the  country,  was  not  in  accordance  with  John 
Reynolds's  Quaker  principles.  While  indisposed  to  fight,  it 
was  evident  that  the  good  man  intended  to  interpose  between 
himself  and  his  enemies  all  the  passive  resistance  that  his 
stout  little  domicile  could  offer. 

And  he  knew  that  he  had  enemies  of  the  bitterest  and 
most  unscrupulous  character.  He  was  a  stanch  Whig,  loyal 
to  the  American  cause,  and,  above  all,  resolute  and  active 
in  the  maintenance  of  law  and  order  in  those  lawless  times. 
He  thus  had  made  himself  obnoxious  to  his  Tory  neighbors, 
and  an  object  of  hate  and  fear  to  a  gang  of  marauders,  who, 
under  the  pretence  of  acting  with  the  British  forces,  plun 
dered  the  country  far  and  near.  Claudius  Smith,  the  .Robin 
Hood  of  the  Highlands  and  the  terror  of  the  pastoral  low 
country,  had  formerly  been  their  leader;  and  the  sympathy 
shown  by  Mr.  Reynolds  with  all  the  efforts  to  bring  him  to 
justice  which  finally  resulted  in  his  capture  and  execution, 
and  awakened  among  his  former  associates  an  intense  desire 
for  revenge.  This  fact,  well  known  to  the  farmer,  kept  him 
constantly  on  his  guard,  and  filled  his  wife  and  daughter 
Phebe  with  deep  apprehension. 

At  the  time  of  our  story,  Phebe  was  only  twelve  years  of 
age,  but  was  mature  beyond  her  years.  There  were  several 
younger  children,  and  she  had  become  almest  womanly  in 


386  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

aiding  her  mother  in  their  care.  Her  stout,  plump  little 
body  had  been  developed  rather  than  enfeebled  by  early 
toil,  and  a  pair  of  resolute  and  often  mirthful  blue  eyes 
bespoke  a  spirit  not  easily  daunted.  She  was  a  native 
growth  of  the  period,  vitalized  by  pure  air  and  out-of-door 
pursuits,  and  she  abounded  in  the  shrewd  intelligence  and 
demure  refinement  of  her  sect  to  a  degree  that  led  some  of 
their  neighbors  to  speak  of  her  as  "a  little  old  woman." 
When  alone  with  the  children,  however,  or  in  the  woods 
and  fields,  she  would  doff  her  Quaker  primness,  and  romp, 
climb  trees,  and  frolic  with  the  wildest. 

But  of  late,  the  troublous  times  and  her  father's  peril 
had  brought  unwonted  thoughtfulness  into  her  blue  eyes, 
and  more  than  Quaker  gravity  to  the  fresh  young  face, 
which,  in  spite  of  exposure  to  sun  and  wind,  maintained 
much  of  its  inherited  fairness  of  complexion.  Of  her  own 
accord  she  was  becoming  a  vigilant  sentinel,  for  a  rumor 
had  reached  Mr.  Beynolds  that  sooner  or  later  he  would 
have  a  visit  from  the  dreaded  mountain  gang  of  hard  riders. 
Two  roads  leading  to  the  hills  converged  on  the  main  high 
way  not  far  from  his  dwelling;  and  from  an  adjacent  knoll 
Phebe  often  watched  this  place,  while  her  father,  with  a  lad 
in  his  employ,  completed  their  work  about  the  barn.  When 
the  shadows  deepened,  all  was  made  as  secure  as  possible 
without  and  within,  and  the  sturdy  farmer,  after  commit 
ting  himself  and  his  household  to  the  Divine  protection, 
slept  as  only  brave  men  sleep  who  are  clear  in  conscience 
and  accustomed  to  danger. 

His  faith  was  undoubtedly  rewarded;  but  Providence  in 
the  execution  of  its  will  loves  to  use  vigilant  human  eyes 
and  ready,  loving  hands.  The  guardian  angel  destined  to 
protect  the  good  man  was  his  blooming  daughter  Phebe, 
who  had  never  thought  of  herself  as  an  angel,  and  indeed 
rarely  thought  of  herself  at  all,  as  is  usually  the  case  with 
those  who  do  most  to  sweeten  and  brighten  the  world.  She 
was  a  natural,  wholesome,  human  child,  with  all  a  child's 
unconsciousness  of  self.  She  knew  she  could  not  protect 


A    BRAVE   LITTLE    QUAKERESS  337 

her  father  like  a  great  stalwart  son,  but  she  could  watch 
and  warn  him  of  danger,  and  as  the  sequel  proved,  she 
could  do  far  more. 

The  farmer's  habits  were  well  known,  and  the  ruffians 
of  the  mountains  were  aware  that  after  he  had  shut  himself 
in  he  was  much  like  .Noah  in  his  ark.  If  they  attempted  to 
burn  him  out,  the  flames  would  bring  down  upon  them 
a  score  of  neighbors  not  hampered  by  Quaker  principles. 
Therefore  they  resolved  upon  a  sudden  onslaught  before 
he  had  finished  the  evening  labors  of  the  farm.  This  was 
what  the  farmer  feared;  and  Phebe,  like  a  vigilant  outpost, 
was  now  never  absent  from  her  place  of  observation  until 
called  in. 

One  spring  evening  she  saw  two  mounted  men  descend 
ing  one  of  the  roads  which  led  from  the  mountains.  Instead 
of  jogging  quietly  out  on  the  highway,  as  ordinary  travel 
lers  would  have  done,  they  disappeared  among  the  trees. 
Soon  afterward  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  two  other  horsemen 
on  the  second  mountain  road.  One  of  these  soon  came  into 
full  view,  and  looked  up  and  down  as  if  to  see  that  all  was 
clear.  Apparently  satisfied,  he  gave  a  low  whistle,  when 
three  men  joined  him.  Phebe  waited  to  see  no  more,  but 
sped  toward  the  house,  her  flaxen  curls  flying  from  her 
flushed  and  excited  face. 

"They  are  coming,  father!  Thee  must  be  quick!"  she 
cried. 

But  a  moment  or  two  elapsed  before  all  were  within  the 
dwelling,  the  doors  banged  and  barred,  the  heavy  shutters 
closed,  and  the  home-fortress  made  secure.  Phebe's  warn 
ing  had  come  none  too  soon,  for  they  had  scarcely  time  to 
take  breath  before  the  tramp  of  galloping  horses  and  the 
oaths  of  their  baffled  foes  were  heard  without.  The  maraud 
ers  did  not  dare  make  much  noise,  for  fear  that  some  pass 
ing  neighbor  might  give  the  alarm.  Tying  their  horses 
behind  the  house,  where  they  would  be  hidden  from  the 
road,  they  tried  various  expedients  to  gain  an  entrance, 
but  the  logs  and  heavy  planks  baffled  them.  At  last  one 

15— ROE— XI 


338  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

of  the  number  suggested  that  they  should  ascend  the  roof 
and  climb  down  the  wide  flue  of  the  chimney.  This  plan 
was  easy  of  execution,  and  for  a  few  moments  the  stout 
farmer  thought  that  his  hour  had  come.  With  a  heroism 
far  beyond  that  of  the  man  who  strikes  down  his  assailant, 
he  prepared  to  suffer  all  things  rather  than  take  life  with 
his  own  hands. 

But  his  wife  proved  equal  to  this  emergency.  She  had 
been  making  over  a  bed,  and  a  large  basket  of  feathers  was 
within  reach.  There  were  live  coals  on  the  hearth,  but  they 
did  not  give  out  enough  heat  to  prevent  the  ruffians  from 
descending.  Two  of  them  were  already  in  the  chimney, 
and  were  threatening  horrible  vengeance  if  the  least  resist 
ance  was  offered.  Upon  the  coals  on  the  hearth  the  house 
wife  instantly  emptied  her  basket  of  feathers;  and  a  great 
volume  of  pungent,  stifling  smoke  poured  up  the  chimney. 
The  threats  of  the  men,  who  by  means  of  ropes  were  cau 
tiously  descending,  were  transformed  into  choking,  half- 
suffocated  sounds,  and  it  was  soon  evident  that  the  in 
truders  were  scrambling  out  as  fast  as  possible.  A  hurried 
consultation  on  the  roof  ensued,  and  then,  as  if  something 
had  alarmed  them,  they  galloped  off.  With  the  exception 
of  the  cries  of  the  peepers,  or  hylas,  in  an  adjacent  swamp, 
the  night  soon  grew  quiet  around  the  closed  and  darkened 
dwelling.  Farmer  Reynolds  bowed  in  thanksgiving  over 
their  escape,  and  then  after  watching  a  few  hours,  slept  as 
did  thousands  of  others  in  those  times  of  anxiety. 

But  Phebe  did  not  sleep.  She  grew  old  by  moments  that 
night  as  do  other  girls  by  months  and  years;  as  never  before 
she  understood  that  her  father's  life  was  in  peril,  flow 
much  that  life  meant  to  her  and  the  little  brood  of  which 
she  was  the  eldest!  How  much  it  meant  to  her  dear  mother, 
who  was  soon  again  to  give  birth  to  a  little  one  that  would 
need  a  father's  protection  and  support!  As  the  young  girl 
lay  in  her  little  attic  room,  with  dilated  eyes  and  ears  intent 
on  the  slightest  sound,  she  was  ready  for  any  heroic  self- 
sacrifice,  without  once  dreaming  that  she  was  heroic. 


A    BRAVE   LITTLE    QUAKERESS  339 

The  news  of  the  night-attack  spread  fast,  and  there  was 
a  period  of  increased  vigilance  which  compelled  the  outlaws 
to  lie  close  in  their  mountain  fastnesses.  But  Phebe  knew 
that  her  father's  enemies  were  still  at  large  with  their  hate 
only  stimulated  because  baffled  for  a  time.  Therefore  she 
did  not  in  the  least  relax  her  watchfulness;  and  she  be 
sought  their  nearest  neighbors  to  come  to  their  assistance 
should  any  alarm  be  given. 

When  the  spring  and  early  summer  passed  without  fur 
ther  trouble,  they  all  began  to  breathe  more  freely,  but  one 
July  night  John  Reynolds  was  betrayed  by  his  patriotic  im 
pulses.  He  was  awakened  by  a  loud  knocking  at  his  door. 
Full  of  misgiving,  he  rose  and  hastily  dressed  himself; 
Phebe,  who  had  slipped  on  her  clothes  at  the  first  alarm, 
joined  him  and  said  earnestly: 

"Don't  thee  open  the  door,  father,  to  anybody,  at  this 
time  of  night;"  and  his  wife,  now  lying  ill  and  helpless  on 
a  bed  in  the  adjoining  room,  added  her  entreaty  to  that 
of  her  daughter.  In  answer,  however,  to  Mr.  Jieynolds's 
inquiries  a  voice  from  without,  speaking  quietly  and  seem 
ingly  with  authority,  asserted  that  they  were  a  squad  from 
Washington's  forces  in  search  of  deserters,  and  that  no 
harm  would  ensue  unless  he  denied  their  lawful  request. 
Conscious  of  innocence,  and  aware  that  detachments  were 
often  abroad  on  such  authorized  quests,  Mr.  Keynolds  un 
barred  his  door.  The  moment  he  opened  it  he  saw  his  ter 
rible  error;  not  soldiers,  but  the  members  of  the  moun 
tain  gang,  were  crouched  like  wild  beasts  ready  to  spring 
upon  him. 

"Fly,  father!"  cried  Phebe.  "They  won't  hurt  us;"  but 
before  the  bewildered  man  could  think  what  to  do,  the  door 
flew  open  from  the  pressure  of  half  a  dozen  wild-looking 
desperadoes,  and  he  was  powerless  in  their  grasp.  They 
evidently  designed  murder,  but  not  a  quick  and  merciful 
"taking  ofi";  they  first  heaped  upon  their  victim  the  vilest 
epithets,  seeking  in  their  thirst  for  revenge  to  inflict  all  the 
terrors  of  death  in  anticipation.  The  good  man,  however, 


340  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER   STORIES 

now  face  to  face  with  his  fate,  grew  calm  and  resigned. 
Exasperated  by  his  courage,  they  began  to  cut  and  torture 
him  with  their  swords  and  knives.  Phebe  rushed  forward 
to  interpose  her  little  form  between  her  father  and  the 
ruffians,  and  was  dashed,  half  stunned,  into  a  corner  of 
the  room.  Even  for  the  sake  of  his  sick  wife,  the  brave 
farmer  could  not  refrain  from  uttering  groans  of  anguish 
which  brought  the  poor  woman  with  faltering  steps  into  his 
presence.  After  one  glance  at  the  awful  scene  she  sank, 
half  fainting,  on  a  settee  near  the  door. 

When  the  desire  for  plunder  got  the  better  of  their  fiend 
ish  cruelty,  one  of  the  gang  threw  a  noosed  rope  over  Mr. 
Reynolds' s  head,  and  then  they  hanged  him  to  the  trammel 
or  iron  hook  in  the  great  chimney. 

"You  can't  smoke  us  out  this  time,"  they  shouted. 
"You've  now  got  to  settle  with  the  avengers  of  Claudius 
Smith;  and  you  and  some  others  will  find  us  ugly  custom 
ers  to  settle  with." 

They  then  rushed  off  to  rob  the  house,  for  the  farmer 
was  reputed  to  have  not  a  little  money  in  his  strong  box. 
The  moment  they  were  gone  Phebe  seized  a  knife  and  cut 
her  father  down.  Terror  and  excitement  gave  her  almost 
supernatural  strength,  and  with  the  aid  of  the  boy  in  her 
father's  service  she  got  the  poor  man  on  a  bed  which  he  had 
occupied  during  his  wife's  illness.  Her  reviving  mother  was 
beginning  to  direct  her  movements  when  the  ruffians  again 
entered;  and  furious  with  rage,  they  again  seized  and  hanged 
her  father,  while  one,  more  brutal  than  the  others,  whipped 
the  poor  child  with  a  heavy  rope  until  he  thought  she  was 
disabled.  The  girl  at  first  cowered  and  shivered  under  the 
blows,  and  then  sank  as  if  lifeless  on  the  floor.  But  the 
moment  she  was  left  to  herself  she  darted  forward  and  once 
more  cut  her  father  down.  The  robbers  then  flew  upon  the 
prostrate  man  and  cut  and  stabbed  him  until  they  supposed 
he  was  dead.  Toward  his  family  they  meditated  a  more 
terrible  and  devilish  cruelty.  After  sacking  the  house  and 
taking  all  the  plunder  they  could  carry,  they  relieved  the 


A    BRAVE   LITTLE    QUAKERESS  341 

horror- stricken  wife  and  crying,  shrieking  children  of  their 
presence.  Their  further  action,  however,  soon  inspired  Phebe 
with  a  new  and  more  awful  fear,  for  she  found  that  they 
had  fastened  the  doors  on  the  outside  and  were  building 
a  fire  against  one  of  them. 

For  a  moment  an  overpowering  despair  at  the  prospect 
of  their  fate  almost  paralyzed  her.  She  believed  her  father 
was  dead.  The  boy  who  had  aided  her  at  first  was  now 
dazed  and  helpless  from  terror.  If  aught  could  be  done  in 
this  supreme  moment  of  peril  she  saw  that  it  must  be  done 
by  her  hands.  The  smoke  from  the  kindling  fire  without 
was  already  curling  in  through  the  crevices  around  the 
door.  There  was  not  a  moment,  not  a  second  to  be  lost 
The  ruffians'  voices  were  growing  fainter  and  she  heard 
the  sounds  of  their  horses'  feet.  Would  they  go  away  in 
time  for  her  to  extinguish  the  fire  ?  She  ran  to  her  attio 
room  and  cautiously  opened  the  shutter.  Yes,  they  were 
mounting;  and  in  the  faint  light  of  the  late-rising  moon 
she  saw  that  they  were  taking  her  father's  horses.  A  mo 
ment  later,  as  if  fearing  that  the  blaze  might  cause  imme 
diate  pursuit,  they  dashed  off  toward  the  mountains. 

The  clatter  of  their  horses'  hoofs  had  not  died  away  be 
fore  the  intrepid  girl  had  opened  the  shutter  of  a  window 
nearest  the  ground,  and  springing  lightly  out  with  a  pail 
in  her  hand  she  rushed  to  the  trough  near  the  barn,  which 
she  knew  was  full  of  water.  Back  and  forth  she  flew  be 
tween  the  fire  and  the  convenient  reservoir  with  all  the 
water  that  her  bruised  arms  and  back  permitted  her  to 
carry.  Fortunately  the  night  was  a  little  damp,  and  the 
stout  thick  door  had  kindled  slowly.  To  her  intense  joy 
she  soon  gained  the  mastery  of  the  flames,  and  at  last  ex 
tinguished  them. 

She  did  not  dare  to  open  the  door  for  fear  that  the  rob 
bers  might  return,  but  clambering  in  at  the  window,  made 
all  secure  as  had  been  customary,  for  now  it  was  her  im 
pulse  to  do  just  as  her  father  would  have  done. 

She  found  her  mother  on  her  knees  beside  her  father, 


342  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND    OTHER    STORIES 

who  would  indeed  have  been  a  ghastly  and  awful  object  to 
all  but  the  eyes  of  love. 

"Oh,  Phebe,  I  hope — I  almost  believe  thy  father  lives!" 
cried  the  woman.  "Is  it  my  throbbing  palm,  or  does  his 
heart  still  beat?" 

"I'm  sure  it  beats,  mother!"  cried  the  girl,  putting  her 
little  hand  on  the  gashed  and  mangled  body. 

"Oh,  then  there's  hope!  Here,  Abner,"  to  the  boy, 
"isn't  there  any  man  in  thee  ?  Help  Phebe  get  him  on  the 
bed,  and  then  we  must  stop  this  awful  bleeding.  Oh,  that 
I  were  well  and  strong!  Phebe,  thee  must  now  take  my 
place.  Thee  may  save  thy  father's  life.  I  can  tell  thee 
what  to  do  if  thee  has  the  courage. ' ' 

Phebe  had  the  courage  and  with  deft  hands  did  her 
mother's  bidding.  She  stanched  the  many  gaping  wounds; 
she  gave  spirits  at  first  drop  by  drop,  until  at  last  the  man 
breathed  and  was  conscious.  Even  before  the  dawn  began 
to  brighten  over  the  dreaded  Highlands  which  their  ruth 
less  enemies  were  already  climbing,  Phebe  was  flying,  bare 
headed,  across  the  fields  to  their  nearest  neighbor.  The 
good  people  heard  of  the  outrage  with  horror  and  indigna 
tion.  A  half- grown  lad  sprang ~on  the  bare  back  of  a  young 
horse  and  galloped  across  the  country  for  a  surgeon.  A  few 
moments  later  the  farmer,  equipped  for  chase  and  battle, 
dashed  away  at  headlong  pace  to  alarm  the  neighborhood. 
The  news  sped  from  house  to  house  and  hamlet  to  hamlet 
like  fire  in  prairie  grass.  The  sun  had  scarcely  risen  before 
a  dozen  bronzed  and  stern-browed  men  were  riding  into 
John  JReynolds's  farm-yard  under  the  lead  of  young  Hal 
June — the  best  shot  that  the  wars  had  left  in  the  region. 
The  surgeon  had  already  arrived,  and  before  he  ceased  from 
his  labors  he  had  dressed  thirty  wounds. 

The  story  told  by  Phebe  had  been  as  brief  as  it  was  ter 
rible — for  she  was  eager  to  return  to  her  father  and  sick 
mother.  She  had  not  dreamed  of  herself  as  the  heroine  of 
the  affair,  and  had  not  given  any  such  impression,  although 
more  than  one  had  remarked  that  she  was  "a  plucky  little 


A    BRAVE   LITTLE   QUAKERESS  343 

chick  to  give  the  alarm  before  it  was  light."  But  when  the 
proud  mother  faintly  and  tearfully  related  the  particulars 
of  the  tragedy,  and  told  how  Phebe  had  saved  her  father's 
life  and  probably  her  mother's — for,  "I  was  too  sick  to 
climb  out  of  a  window,"  she  said;  when  she  told  how  the 
child  after  a  merciless  whipping  had  again  cut  her  father 
down  from  the  trammel-hook,  had  extinguished  the  fire, 
and  had  been  nursing  her  father  back  to  life,  while  all  the 
time  in  almost  agony  herself  from  the  cruel  blows  that  had 
been  rained  upon  her — Phebe  was  dazed  and  bewildered  at 
the  storm  of  applause  that  greeted  her.  And  when  the  sur 
geon,  in  order  to  intensify  the  general  desire  for  vengeance, 
showed  the  great  welts  and  scars  on  her  arms  and  neck, 
gray-bearded  fathers  who  had  known  her  from  infancy  took 
her  into  their  arms  and  blessed  and  kissed  her.  For  once 
in  his  life  young  Hal  June  wished  he  was  a  gray- beard,  but 
his  course  was  much  more  to  the  mind  of  Phebe  than  any 
number  of  caresses  would  have  been.  Springing  on  his 
great  black  horse,  and  with  his  dark  eyes  burning  with 
a  fire  that  only  blood  could  quench,  he  shouted: 

"Come,  neighbors,  it's  time  for  deeds.  That  brave  little 
woman  ought  to  make  a  man  of  every  mother's  son  of  us;" 
and  he  dashed  away  so  furiously  that  Phebe  thought  with 
a  strange  little  tremor  at  her  heart  that  he  might  in  his 
speed  face  the  robbers  all  alone.  The  stout  yeomen  clat 
tered  after  him;  the  sound  of  their  pursuit  soon  died  away; 
and  Phebe  returned  to  woman's  work  of  nursing,  watching, 
and  praying. 

The  bandits  of  the  hills,  not  expecting  such  prompt  re 
taliation,  were  overtaken,  and  then  followed  a  headlong 
race  over  the  rough  mountain  roads — guilty  wretches  fly 
ing  for  life,  and  stern  men  almost  reckless  in  the  burning 
desire  to  avenge  a  terrible  wrong.  Although  the  horses 
of  the  marauders  were  tired,  their  riders  were  so  well  ac 
quainted  with  the  fastnesses  of  the  wilderness  that  they 
led  the  pursuers  through  exceedingly  difficult  and  danger 
ous  paths.  At  last,  JUP"*  ever  in  the  van,  caught  sight  of 


344  TAKEN   ALIVE:    AND   OTHER   STORIES 

a  man's  form,  and  almost  instantly  his  rifle  awoke  a  hun 
dred  echoes  among  the  hills.  When  they  reached  the  place, 
stains  of  blood  marked  the  ground,  proving  that  at  least 
a  wound  had  been  given.  Just  beyond,  the  gang  evidently 
had  dispersed,  each  one  for  himself,  leaving  behind  every 
thing  that  impeded  their  progress.  The  region  was  almost 
impenetrable  in  its  wildness  except  by  those  who  knew  all 
its  rugged  paths.  The  body  of  the  man  whom  June  had 
wounded,  however,  was  found,  clothed  in  a  suit  of  Quaker 
drab  stolen  from  Mr.  Reynolds.  The  rest  of  the  band  with 
few  exceptions  met  with  fates,  that  accorded  with  their 
deeds. 

Phebe  had  the  happiness  of  nursing  her  father  back  to 
health,  and  although  maimed  and  disfigured,  he  lived 
to  a  ripe  old  age.  If  the  bud  is  the  promise  of  the  flower, 
Phebe  must  have  developed  a  womanhood  that  was  regal 
in  its  worth;  at  the  same  time  I  believe  that  she  always 
remained  a  modest,  demure  little  Quakeress,  and  never 
thought  of  her  virtues  except  when  reminded  of  them  in 
plain  English. 

NOTE — In  the  preceding  narrative  I  haye  followed  almost  literally  a  family 
tradition  of  events  which  actually  occurred. 


THE   ENE 


THE    HOME    ACRE 


COPYRIGHT,  1886  AND  1887,  BY   HARPER  &   BROTHERS. 
COPYRIGHT,  1889,  BY  DODD,  MEAD,  &  COMPANV. 
All  rights  rtservtd. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I 
TREE-PLANTING 5 

CHAPTER  II 
FRUIT-TREES  AND  GRASS 22 

CHAPTER  III 
THE  GARDEN 38 

CHAPTER    IV 
THE  VINEYARD  AND  ORCHARD 55 

CHAPTER    V 
THE  RASPBERRY 74 

CHAPTER    VI 
THE  CURRANT 90 

CHAPTER   VII 
STRAWBERRIES 107 

CHAPTER    VIII 
THE  KITCHEN-GARDEN 126 

;  CHAPTER  IX 
THE  KITCHEN-GARDEN  (Concluded) .  141 


THE     HOME    ACRE 


CHAPTER  I 

TREE-PLANTING 

LAND  hunger  is  so  general  that  it  may  be  regarded  as 
a  natural  craving.  Artificial  modes  of  life,  it  is  true, 
can  destroy  it,  but  it  is  apt  to  reassert  itself  in  later 
generations.  To  tens  of  thousands  of  bread-winners  in  cities 
a  country  home  is  the  dream  of  the  future,  the  crown  and 
reward  of  their  life- toil.  Increasing  numbers  are  taking 
what  would  seem  to  be  the  wiser  course,  and  are  combin 
ing  rural  pleasures  and  advantages  with  their  business. 
As  the  questions  of  rapid  transit  are  solved,  the  welfare  of 
children  will  turn  the  scale  more  and  more  often  against 
the  conventional  city  house  or  flat.  A  home  can  be  created 
in  rented  dwellings  and  apartments;  but  a  home  for  which 
we  have  the  deed,  a  cottage  surrounded  by  trees,  flowers, 
lawn,  and  garden,  is  the  refuge  which  best  satisfies  the 
heart.  By  means  of  such  a  suburban  nook  we  can  keep  up 
our  relations  with  Nature  and  all  her  varied  and  health-giv 
ing  life.  The  tired  man  returning  from  business  finds  that 
his  excited  brain  will  not  cease  to  act.  He  can  enjoy  restor 
ing  rest  in  the  complete  diversion  of  his  thoughts;  he  can 
think  of  this  tree  or  that  plant,  and  how  he  can  fill  to  ad 
vantage  unoccupied  spaces  with  other  trees,  flowers,  and 
vegetables.  If  there  is  a  Jersey  cow  to  welcome  him  with 
her  placid  trust,  a  good  roadster  to  whinny  for  an  airing, 
and  a  flock  of  chickens  to  clamor  about  his  feet  for  their 
supper,  his  jangling  nerves  will  be  quieted,  in  spite  of  all 

(5) 


6  THE   HOME   ACRE 

the  bulls  and  bears  of  Wall  Street.  Best  of  all,  he  will  see 
that  his  children  have  air  and  space  in  which  to  grow  nat 
urally,  healthfully.  His  fruit-trees  will  testify  to  his  wis 
dom  in  providing  a  country  home.  For  instance,  he  will 
observe  that  if  sound  plums  are  left  in  contact  with  stung 
and  decaying  specimens,  they  too  will  be  infected;  he  will 
see  that  too  close  crowding  renders  the  prospect  for  good 
fruit  doubtful;  and,  by  natural  transition  of  thought,  will 
be  glad  that  his  boys  and  girls  are  not  shut  in  to  the  fortui 
tous  associations  of  hall-way  and  street. 

The  area  of  land  purchased  will  depend  largely  on  the  de 
sires  and  purse  of  the  buyer;  but  about  one  acre  appears  to 
satisfy  the  majority  of  people.  This  amount  is  not  so  great 
that  the  business  man  is  burdened  with  care,  nor  is  its  limit 
so  small  that  he  is  cramped  and  thwarted  by  line  fences.  If 
he  can  give  to  his  bit  of  Eden  but  little  thought  and  money, 
he  will  find  that  an  acre  can  be  so  laid  out  as  to  entail  com 
paratively  small  expense  in  either  the  one  or  the  other;  if 
he  has  the  time  and  taste  to  make  the  land  his  play-ground 
as  well  as  that  of  his  children,  scope  is  afforded  for  an  al 
most  infinite  variety  of  pleasing  labors  and  interesting  ex 
periments.  "When  we  come  to  co-work  with  Nature,  all  we 
do  has  some  of  the  characteristics  of  an  experiment.  The 
labor  of  the  year  is  a  game  of  skill,  into  which  also  enter 
the  fascinating  elements  of  apparent  chance.  What  a  tree, 
a  flower,  or  vegetable  bed  will  give,  depends  chiefly  upon 
us;  yet  all  the  vicissitudes  of  dew,  rain,  frost,  and  sun, 
have  their  part  in  the  result.  We  play  the  game  with  Na 
ture,  and  she  will  usually  let  us  win  if  we  are  not  careless, 
ignorant,  or  stupid.  She  keeps  up  our  zest  by  never  per 
mitting  the  game  to  be  played  twice  under  the  same  condi 
tions.  We  can  no  more  carry  on  our  garden  this  season 
precisely  as  we  did  last  year  than  a  captain  can  sail  his  ship 
exactly  as  he  did  on  the  preceding  voyage.  A  country 
home  makes  even  the  weather  interesting;  and  the  rise  and 
fall  of  the  mercury  is  watched  with  scarcely  less  solicitude 
than  the  mutations  of  the  market. 


TREE-PLANTING  7 

In  this  chapter  and  in  those  which  may  ensue  I  merely 
hope  to  make  some  useful  suggestions  and  give  practical 
advice — tbe  result  of  experience,  my  own  and  others' — 
which  the  reader  may  carry  out  and  modify  according  to 
his  judgment. 

We  will  suppose  that  an  acre  has  been  bought;  that  it  is 
comparatively  level,  with  nothing  of  especial  value  upon  it 
— in  brief,  that  the  home  and  its  surroundings  are  still  to  be 
created. 

It  is  not  within  my  design  to  treat  of  the  dwelling,  its 
architecture,  etc.,  but  we  shall  have  something  to  say  fur 
ther  on  in  regard  to  its  location.  Before  purchasing,  the 
most  careful  investigations  should  be  made  as  to  the  health- 
fulness  of  the  region  and  the  opportunities  for  thorough 
drainage.  Having  bought  the  acre,  the  question  of  remov 
ing  all  undue  accumulations,  of  water  on  or  beneath  the  sur 
face  should  be  attended  to  at  first.  The  dry  appearance  of 
the  soil  during  much  of  tbe  year  may  be  misleading.  It 
should  be  remembered  that  there  are  equinoctial  storms 
and  melting  snows.  Superabundant  moisture  at  every 
period  should  have  channels  of  immediate  escape,  for 
moisture  in  excess  is  an  injury  to  plant  as  well  as  to  fam 
ily  life;  while  thoroughly  and  quickly  drained  land  en 
dures  drought  far  better  than  that  which  is  rendered  heavy 
and  sour  by  water  stagnating  beneath  the  surface.  Tile- 
drains  are  usually  the  cheapest  and  most  effective;  but  if 
there  are  stones  and  rocks  upon  the  place,  they  can  be  util 
ized  and  disposed  of  at  the  same  time  by  their  burial  in 
ditches — and  they  should  be  covered  so  deeply  that  a  plow, 
although  sunk  to  the  beam,  can  pass  over  them.  Tiles  or 
the  top  ot  a  stone  drain  should  be  at  least  two  feet  below 
the  surface.  If  the  ground  of  the  acre  is  underlaid  with  a 
porous  subsoil,  there  is  usually  an  adequate  natural  drainage. 

Making  haste  slowly  is  often  the  quickest  way  to  desired 
results.  It  is  the  usual  method  to  erect  the  dwelling  first, 
and  afterward  to  subdue  and  enrich  the  ground  gradually. 
This  in  many  instances  may  prove  the  best  course;  but  when 


8  THE   HOME   ACRE 

it  is  practicable,  I  should  advise  that  building  be  deferred 
until  the  land  (with  the  exception  of  the  spaces  to  be  occu 
pied  with  the  house  and  barn)  can  be  covered  with  a  heavy 
dressing  of  barnyard  manure,  and  that  this  be  plowed  under 
in  the  autumn.  Such  general  enriching  of  the  soil  may  seem 
a  waste  in  view  of  the  carriage-drive  and  walks  yet  to  be  laid 
out;  but  this  will  not  prove  true.  It  should  be  remembered 
that  while  certain  parts  of  the  place  are  to  be  kept  bare  of 
surface-vegetation,  they  nevertheless  will  form  a  portion  of 
the  root-pasturage  of  the  shade  and  fruit  trees.  The  land, 
also,  can  be  more  evenly  and  deeply  plowed  before  obstruc 
tions  are  placed  upon  it,  and  roots,  pestiferous  weeds,  and 
stones  removed  with  greatest  economy.  Moreover,  the 
good  initial  enriching  is  capital,  hoarded  in  the  soil,  to 
start  with.  On  many  new  places  I  have  seen  trees  and 
plants  beginning  a  feeble  and  uncertain  life,  barely  exist 
ing  rather  than  growing,  because  their  roots  found  the  soil 
like  a  table  with  dishes  but  without  food.  If  the  fertilizer 
is  plowed  under  in  the  autumn,  again  mixed  with  the  soil 
by  a  second  plowing  in  the  spring,  it  will  be  decomposed 
and  ready  for  immediate  use  by  every  rootlet  in  contact 
with  it.  Now,  as  farmers  say,  the  "land  is  in  good  heart," 
and  it  will  cheer  its  owner's  heart  to  see  the  growth  promptly 
made  by  whatever  is  properly  planted.  Instead  of  losing 
time,  he  has  gained  years.  Suppose  the  acre  to  have  been 
bought  in  September,  and  treated  as  I  have  indicated,  it  is 
ready  for  a  generous  reception  of  plants  and  trees  the  fol 
lowing  spring. 

Possibly  at  the  time  of  purchase  the  acre  may  be  covered 
with  coarse  grass,  weeds,  or  undergrowth  of  some  kind.  In 
this  case,  after  the  initial  plowing,  the  cultivation  for  a  sea 
son  of  some  such  crop  as  corn  or  potatoes  may  be  of  great 
advantage  in  clearing  the  land,  and  the  proceeds  of  the 
crop  would  partially  meet  expenses.  If  the  aim  is  merely 
to  subdue  and  clean  the  land  as  quickly  as  possible,  nothing 
is  better  than  buckwheat,  sown  thickly  and  plowed  under 
just  as  it  comes  into  blossom.  It  is  the  nature  of  this  ram- 


TREE-PLANTING  9 

pant-growing  grain  to  kill  out  everything  else  and  leave  the 
soil  light  and  mellow.  If  the  ground  is  encumbered  with 
many  stones  and  rocks,  the  question  of  clearing  it  is  more 
complicated.  They  can  be  used,  and  often  sold  to  advan 
tage,  for  building  purposes.  In  some  instances  I  have  seen 
laboring- men  clear  the  most  unpromising  plots  of  ground  by 
burying  all  rocks  and  stones  deeply  beneath  the  surface — 
men,  too,  who  had  no  other  time  for  the  task  except  the 
brief  hours  before  and  after  their  daily  toil. 

I  shall  give  no  distinct  plan  for  laying  out  the  ground. 
The  taste  of  the  owner,  or  more  probably  that  of  his  wife, 
will  now  come  into  play.  Their  ideas  also  will  be  modified 
by  many  local  circumstances — as,  for  instance,  the  undula 
tions  of  the  land,  if  there  are  any;  proximity  to  neighbors, 
etc.  If  little  besides  shade  and  lawn  is  desired,  this  fact 
will  have  a  controlling  influence;  if,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
proprietor  wishes  to  make  his  acre  as  productive  as  possible, 
the  house  will  be  built  nearer  the  street,  wider  open  space 
will  be  left  for  the  garden,  and  fruit-trees  will  predominate 
over  those  grown  merely  for  shade  and  beauty.  There  are 
few  who  would  care  to  follow  a  plan  which  many  others  had 
adopted.  Indeed,  it  would  be  the  natural  wish  of  persons 
of  taste  to  impart  something  of  their  own  individuality  to 
their  rural  home;  and  the  effort  to  do  this  would  afford 
much  agreeable  occupation.  Plates  giving  the  elevation 
and  arrangement  of  country  homes  can  be  studied  by  the 
evening  lamp;  visits  to  places  noted  for  their  beauty,  sim 
plicity,  and  good  taste  will  afford  motives  for  many  a  breezy 
drive;  while  useful  suggestions  from  what  had  been  accom 
plished  by  others  may  repay  for  an  extended  journey.  Such 
observations  and  study  will  cost  little  more  than  an  agree 
able  expenditure  of  time;  and  surely  a  home  is  worth  care 
ful  thought.  It  then  truly  becomes  your  home — something 
that  you  have  evolved  with  loving  effort.  Dear  thoughts  of 
wife  and  children  enter  into  its  very  materiality;  walks  are 
planned  with  a  loving  consciousness  of  the  feet  which  are 
to  tread  them,  and  trees  planted  with  prophetic  vision  of 


10  THE    HOME   ACRE 

the  groups  that  will  gather  beneath  the  shade.  This  could 
scarcely  be  true  if  the  acre  were  turned  over  to  architect, 
builders,  and  landscape-gardeners,  with  an  agreement  that 
you  should  have  possession  at  a  specified  time. 

We  will  suppose  that  it  is  early  spring,  that  the  ground 
has  received  its  second  plowing,  and  that  the  carriage-drive 
and  the  main  walks  have  been  marked  out  on  paper,  or, 
better  still,  on  a  carefully  considered  map.  There  is  now 
so  much  to  do  that  one  is  almost  bewildered;  and  the  old 
saying,  "Rome  was  not  built  in  a  day,"  is  a  good  thing  to 
remember.  An  orderly  succession  of  labor  will  bring  beauty 
and  comfort  in  good  time,  especially  if  essential  or  founda 
tion  labors  are  first  well  performed.  Few  things  will  prove 
more  satisfactory  than  dry,  hard,  smooth  carriage- roads  and 
walks.  These,  with  their  curves,  can  be  carefully  staked 
out,  the  surface-earth  between  the  stakes  to  the  depth  of 
four  or  five  inches  carted  to  the  rear  of  the  place  near  the 
stable,  or  the  place  where  the  stable  is  to  be.  Of  the  value 
of  this  surface-soil  we  shall  speak  presently,  and  will  merely 
remark  in  passing  that  it  is  amply  worth  the  trouble  of  sav 
ing.  Its  removal  leaves  the  beds  of  the  driveway  and  walks 
depressed  several  inches  below  the  surrounding  surface. 
Fill  these  shallow  excavations  with  little  stones,  the  larger 
in  the  bottom,  the  smaller  on  top,  and  cover  all  with  gravel. 
You  now  have  roads  and  walks  that  will  be  dry  and  hard 
even  in  oozy  March,  and  you  can  stroll  about  your  place 
the  moment  the  heaviest  shower  is  over.  The  greater  first 
cost  will  be  more  than  made  good  by  the  fact  that  scarcely 
a  weed  can  start  or  grow  on  pathways  thus  treated.  All 
they  will  need  is  an  occasional  rounding  up  and  smoothing 
with  a  rake. 

While  this  labor  is  going  on  you  can  begin  the  planting 
of  trees.  To  this  task  I  would  earnestly  ask  careful  atten 
tion.  Your  house  can  be  built  in  a  summer;  but  it  requires 
a  good  part  of  a  century  to  build  the  best  trees  into  any 
thing  like  perfection. 

The  usual  tendency  is  to  plant  much  too  closely.     Ob- 


TREE-PLANTING  11 

serve  well-developed  trees,  and  see  how  wide  a  space  they 
require.  There  is  naturally  an  eager  wish  for  shade  as  soon 
as  possible,  and  a  desire  to  banish  from  surroundings  an 
aspect  of  bareness.  These  purposes  can,  it  is  true,  often 
be  accomplished  by  setting  out  more  trees  at  first  than 
could  mature,  and  by  taking  out  one  and  another  from 
time  to  time  when  they  begin  to  interfere  with  each  other's 
growth.  One  symmetrical,  noble  tree,  however,  is  certainly 
worth  more  than  a  dozen  distorted,  misshapen  specimens. 
If  given  space,  every  kind  of  tree  and  shrub  will  develop 
its  own  individuality;  and  herein  lies  one  of  their  greatest 
charms.  If  the  oak  typifies  manhood,  the  drooping  elm  is 
equally  suggestive  of  feminine  grace,  while  the  sugar- 
maple,  prodigal  of  its  rich  juices,  tasselled  bloom,  and 
winged  seeds,  reminds  us  of  wholesome,  cheerful  natures. 
Even  when  dying,  its  foliage  takes  on  the  earliest  and  rich 
est  hues  of  autumn. 

The  trees  about  our  door  become  in  a  sense  our  com 
panions.  They  appeal  to  the  eye,  fancy,  and  feelings  of 
different  people  differently.  Therefore  I  shall  leave  the 
choice  of  arboreal  associates  to  those  who  are  to  plant 
them — a  choice  best  guided  by  observation  of  trees.  Why 
should  you  not  plant  those  you  like  the  best,  those  which 
are  the  most  congenial  ? 

A  few  suggestions,  however,  may  be  useful.  I  would 
advise  the  reader  not  to  be  in  too  great  haste  to  fill  up  his 
grounds.  While  there  are  trees  to  which  his  choice  reverts 
almost  instantly,  there  are  probably  many  other  beautiful 
varieties  with  which  he  is  not  acquainted.  If  he  has  kept 
space  for  the  planting  of  something  new  every  spring  and 
fall,  he  has  done  much  to  preserve  his  zest  in  his  rural  sur 
roundings,  and  to  give  a  pleasing  direction  to  his  summer 
observation.  He  is  ever  on  the  alert  to  discover  trees  and 
shrubs  that  satisfy  his  taste. 

During  the  preparation  of  this  book  I  visited  the  grounds 
of  Mr.  At  S.  Fuller,  at  Ridgewood,  N.  J.,  and  for  an  hour 
or  two  I  broke  the  tenth  commandment  in  spite  of  myself. 


12  THE    HOME    ACRE 

I  was  surrounded  by  trees  from  almost  every  portion  of  the 
northern  temperate  zone,  from  Oregon  to  Japan;  and  in 
Mr.  Fuller  I  had  a  guide  whose  sympathy  with  his  arboreal 
pets  was  only  equalled  by  his  knowledge  of  their  character 
istics.  All  who  love  trees  should  possess  his  book  entitled 
"Practical  Forestry."  If  it  could  only  be  put  into  the 
hands  of  law-makers,  and  they  compelled  to  learn  much 
of  its  contents  by  heart,  they  would  cease  to  be  more  or 
less  conscious  traitors  to  their  country  in  allowing  the  de 
struction  of  forests.  They  might  avert  the  verdict  of  the 
future,  and  prevent  posterity  from  denouncing  the  irrep 
arable  wrong  which  is  now  permitted  with  impunity. 
The  Arnolds  of  to-day  are  those  who  have  the  power  to 
save  the  trees,  yet  fail  to  do  so. 

Japan  appears  to  be  doing  as  much  to  adorn  our  lawns 
and  gardens  as  our  drawing-rooms;  and  from  this  and  other 
foreign  lands  much  that  is  beautiful  or  curious  is  coming 
annually  to  our  shores.  At  the  same  time  I  was  convinced 
of  the  wisdom  of  Mr.  Fuller's  appreciation  of  our  native 
trees.  In  few  instances  should  we  have  to  go  far  from 
home  to  find  nearly  all  that  we  wanted  in  beautiful  variety 
— maples,  dogwoods,  scarlet  and  chestnut  oaks,  the  liquid- 
amber,  the  whitewood  or  tulip-tree,  white  birch,  and  horn 
beam,  or  the  hop-tree;  not  to  speak  of  the  evergreens  and 
shrubs  indigenous  to  our  forests.  Perhaps  it  is  not  gen 
erally  known  that  the  persimmon,  so  well  remembered  by 
old  campaigners  in  Virginia,  will  grow  readily  in  this  lati 
tude.  There  are  forests  of  this  tree  around  Paterson,  N.  J., 
and  it  has  been  known  to  endure  twenty-seven  degrees  be 
low  zero.  It  is  a  handsome  tree  at  any  season,  and  its  fruit 
in  November  caused  much  straggling  from  our  line  of  march 
in  the  South.  Then  there  is  our  clean- boled,  graceful  beech, 
whose  smooth  white  bark  has  received  so  many  tender  con 
fidences.  In  the  neighborhood  of  a  village  you  will  rarely 
find  one  of  these  trees  whereon  is  not  linked  the  names  of 
lovers  that  have  sat  beneath  the  shade.  Indeed  I  have 
found  mementoes  of  trysts  or  rambles  deep  in  the  forest 


TREE-PLANTING  13 

of  which  the  faithful  beech  has  kept  the  record  until  the 
lovers  were  old  or  dead.  On  an  immense  old  beech  in 
Tennessee  there  is  an  inscription  which,  while  it  suggests 
a  hug,  presents  to  the  fancy  an  experience  remote  from 
a  lover's  embrace.  It  reads,  "D.  Boone  cilled  bar  on 
tree." 

There  is  one  objection  to  the  beech  which  also  lies  against 
the  white  oak — it  does  not  droj)  its  leaves  within  the  space 
of  a  few  autumn  days.  The  bleached  foliage  is  falling  all 
winter  long,  thus  giving  the  ground  near  an  untidy  aspect. 
With  some,  the  question  of  absolute  neatness  is  paramount; 
with  others,  leaves  are  clean  dirt,  and  their  rustle  in  the 
wind  does  not  cease  to  be  music  even  after  they  have  fallen. 

Speaking  of  native  trees  and  shrubs,  we  shall  do  well  to 
use  our  eyes  carefully  during  our  summer  walks  and  drives; 
for  if  we  do,  we  can  scarcely  fail  to  fall  in  love  with  types 
and  varieties  growing  wild.  They  will  thrive  just  as  well 
on  the  acre  if  properly  removed.  In  a  sense  they  bring  the 
forest  with  them,  and  open  vistas  at  our  door  deep  into 
the  heart  of  Nature.  The  tree  is  not  only  a  thing  of  beauty 
in  itself,  but  it  represents  to  the  fancy  all  its  wild  haunts 
the  world  over. 

In  gratifying  our  taste  for  native  trees  we  need  not  con 
fine  ourselves  to  those  indigenous  to  our  own  locality. 
From  the  nurseries  we  can  obtain  specimens  that  beautify 
other  regions  of  our  broad  land ;  as,  for  instance,  the  Ken 
tucky  yellow-wood,  the  papaw,  the  Judas-tree,  and,  in  the 
latitude  of  New  Jersey  and  southward,  the  holly. 

In  many  instances  the  purchaser  of  the  acre  may  find  a 
lasting  pleasure  in  developing  a  specialty.  He  may  desire 
to  gather  about  him  all  the  drooping  or  weeping  trees  that 
will  grow  in  his  latitude,  or  he  may  choose  to  turn  his  acre 
largely  into  a  nut-orchard,  and  delight  his  children  with 
a  harvest  which  they  will  gather  with  all  the  zest  of  the 
frisky  red  squirrel.  If  one  could  succeed  in  obtaining  a 
bearing  tree  of  Hale's  paper-shell  hickory-nut,  he  would 
have  a  prize  indeed.  Increasing  attention  is  given  to  the 


14  THE   HOME   ACRE 

growing  of  nut-trees  in  our  large  nurseries,  and  there  would 
be  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  a  supply. 

In  passing  from  this  subject  of  choice  in  deciduous  trees 
and  shrubs,  I  would  suggest,  in  addition  to  visits  to  woods 
and  copse,  to  the  well-ornamented  places  of  men  who  have 
long  gratified  a  fine  taste  in  this  respect,  that  the  reader 
also  make  time  to  see  occasionally  a  nursery  like  that  of 
S.  B.  Parsons  &  Co.,  at  Flushing,  N.  Y.  There  is  no  teach 
ing  like  that  of  the  eyes;  and  the  amateur  who  would  do 
a  bit  of  landscape-gardening  about  his  own  home  learns 
what  he  would  like  and  what  he  can  do  by  seeing  shrubs 
and  trees  in  their  various  stages  of  growth  and  beauty. 

I  shall  treat  the  subject  of  evergreens  at  the  close  of  this 
chapter. 

As  a  rule,  I  have  not  much  sympathy  with  the  effort  to 
set  out  large  trees  in  the  hope  of  obtaining  shade  more 
quickly.  The  trees  have  to  be  trimmed  up  and  cut  back  so 
greatly  that  their  symmetry  is  often  destroyed.  They  are 
also  apt  to  be  checked  in  their  growth  so  seriously  by  such 
removal  that  a  slender  sapling,  planted  at  the  same  time, 
overtakes  and  passes  them.  I  prefer  a  young  tree,  straight- 
stemmed,  healthy,  and  typical  of  its  species  or  variety. 
Then  we  may  watch  its  rapid  natural  development  as  we 
would  that  of  a  child.  Still,  when  large  trees  can  be  re 
moved  in  winter  with  a  great  ball  of  frozen  earth  that 
insures  the  preservation  of  the  fibrous  roots,  much  time 
can  be  saved.  It  should  ever  be  remembered  that  prompt, 
rapid  growth  of  the  transplanted  tree  depends  on  two 
things — plenty  of  small  fibrous  roots,  and  a  fertile  soil  to 
receive  them.  It  usually  happens  that  the  purchaser  em 
ploys  a  local  citizen  to  aid  in  putting  his  ground  in  order. 
In  every  rural  neighborhood  there  are  smart  men — "smart" 
is  the  proper  adjective;  for  they  are  neither  sagacious  nor 
trustworthy,  and  there  is  ever  a  dismal  hiatus  between  their 
promises  and  performance.  Such  men  lie  in  wait  for  new 
comers,  to  take  advantage  of  their  inexperience  and  neces 
sary  absence.  They  will  assure  their  confiding  employers 


TREE-PLANTING  15 

that  they  are  beyond  learning  anything  new  in  the  planting 
of  trees — which  is  true,  in  a  sinister  sense.  They  will  leave 
roots  exposed  to  sun  and  wind — in  brief,  pay  no  more  atten 
tion  to  them  than  a  baby-farmer  would  bestow  on  an  in 
fant's  appetite;  and  then,  when  convenient,  thrust  them 
into  a  hole  scarcely  large  enough  for  a  post.  They  expect 
to  receive  their  money  long  before  the  dishonest  character 
of  their  work  can  be  discovered.  The  number  of  trees 
which  this"  class  of  men  have  dwarfed  or  killed  outright 
would  make  a  forest.  The  result  of  a  well-meaning  yet 
ignorant  man's  work  might  be  equally  unsatisfactory. 
Therefore,  the  purchaser  of  the  acre  should  know  how  a 
tree  should  be  planted,  and  see  to  it  himself;  or  he  should 
by  careful  inquiry  select  a  man  for  the  task  who  could 
bring  testimonials  from  those  to  whom  he  had  rendered 
like  services  in  the  past. 

The  hole  destined  to  receive  a  shade  or  fruit  tree  should 
be  at  least  three  feet  in  diameter  and  two  feet  deep.  It  then 
should  be  partially  filled  with  good  surface  soil,  upon  which 
the  tree  should  stand,  so  that  its  roots  could  extend  natu 
rally  according  to  their  original  growth.  Good  fine  loam 
should  be  sifted  through  and  over  them,  and  they  should 
not  be  permitted  to  come  in  contact  with  decaying  matter 
or  coarse,  unfermented  manure.  The  tree  should  be  set  as 
deeply  in  the  soil  as  it  stood  when  first  taken  up.  As  the 
earth  is  thrown  gently  through  and  over  the  roots  it  should 
be  packed  lightly  against  them  with  the  foot,  and  water, 
should  the  season  be  rather  dry  and  warm,  poured  in  from 
time  to  time  to  settle  the  fine  soil  about  them.  The  surface 
should  be  levelled  at  last  with  a  slight  dip  toward  the  tree, 
so  that  spring  and  summer  rains  may  be  retained  directly 
about  the  roots.  Then  a  mulch  of  coarse  manure  is  helpful, 
for  it  keeps  the  surface  moist,  and  its  richness  will  reach 
the  roots  gradually  in  a  diluted  form.  A  mulch  of  straw, 
leaves,  or  coarse  hay  is  better  than  none  at  all.  After 
being  planted,  three  stout  stakes  should  be  inserted  firmly, 
in  the  earth  at  the  three  points  of  a  triangle,  the  tree  being 


16  THE   HOME   ACRE 

its  centre.  Then  by  a  rope  of  straw  or  some  soft  material 
the  tree  should  be  braced  firmly  between  the  protecting 
stakes,  and  thus  it  is  kept  from  being  whipped  around  by 
the  wind.  Should  periods  of  drought  ensue  during  the 
growing  season,  it  would  be  well  to  rake  the  mulch  one 
side,  and  saturate  the  ground  around  the  young  tree  with 
an  abundance  of  water,  and  the  mulch  afterward  spread  as 
before.  Such  watering  is  often  essential,  and  it  should  be 
thorough.  Unskilled  persons  usually  do  more  harm  than 
good  by  their  half-way  measures  in  this  respect. 

Speaking  of  trees,  it  may  so  happen  that  the  acre  is 
already  in  forest.  Then,  indeed,  there  should  be  careful 
discrimination  in  the  use  of  the  axe.  It  may  be  said  that 
a  fine  tree  is  in  the  way  of  the  dwelling.  Perhaps  the  pro 
posed  dwelling  is  in  the  way  of  the  tree.  In  England  the 
work  of  "groving,"  or  thinning  out  trees,  is  carried  to 
the  perfection  of  a  fine  art.  One  shudders  at  the  havoc 
which  might  be  made  by  a  stolid  laborer.  Indeed,  to  nearly 
all  who  could  be  employed  in  preparing  a  wooded  acre  for 
habitation,  a  tree  would  be  looked  upon  as  little  more  than 
so  much  cord-wood  or  lumber. 

If  I  had  a  wooded  acre  I  should  study  the  trees  most 
carefully  before  coming  to  any  decision  as  to  the  situation 
of  the  dwelling  and  out-buildings.  Having  removed  those 
obviously  unworthy  to  remain,  I  should  put  in  the  axe  very 
thoughtfully  among  the  finer  specimens,  remembering  that 
I  should  be  under  the  soil  before  Nature  could  build  others 
like  them. 

In  the  fitting  up  of  this  planet  as  the  home  of  mankind 
it  would  appear  that  the  Creator  regarded  the  coniferae,  or 
evergreen  family,  as  well  worthy  of  attention;  for  almost 
from  the  first,  according  to  geologists,  this  family  records 
on  the  rocky  tablets  of  the  earth  its  appearance,  large  and 
varied  development,  and  its  adaptation  to  each  change  in 
climate  and  condition  of  the  globe's  surface  during  the 
•countless  ages  of  preparation.  Surely,  therefore,  he  who 
is  evolving  a  home  on  one  acre  of  the  earth's  area  cannot 


TREE-PLANTING  17 

neglect  a  genus  of  trees  that  has  been  so  signally  honored. 
Evergreens  will  speedily  banish  the  sense  of  newness  from 
his  grounds;  for  by  putting  them  about  his  door  he  has 
added  the  link  which  connects  his  acre  with  the  earliest 
geological  record  of  tree- planting.  Then,  like  Diedrich 
Knickerbocker,  who  felt  that  he  must  trace  the  province 
of  New  York  back  to  the  origin  of  the  universe,  he  can 
Jook  upon  his  coniferae  and  feel  that  his  latest  work  is  in 
accord  with  one  of  the  earliest  laws  of  creation.  I  imagine, 
however,  that  my  readers'  choice  of  evergreens  will  be  de 
termined  chiefly  by  the  fact  that  they  are  always  beautiful, 
are  easily  managed,  and  that  by  means  of  them  beautiful 
effects  can  be  created  within  comparatively  small  space. 
On  Mr.  Fuller's  grounds  I  saw  what  might  be  fittingly 
termed  a  small  parterre  of  dwarf  evergreens,  some  of  which 
were  twenty-five  years  old. 

Numbers  of  this  family  might  be  described  as  evergreen 
and  gold ;  for  part  of  the  perennial  foliage  shades  off  from 
the  deepest  green  to  bright  golden  hues.  Among  the  group 
of  this  variety,  Japanese  in  origin,  Mr.  Fuller  showed  me 
a  "sporting"  specimen,  which,  from  some  obscure  and  re 
markable  impulse,  appeared  bent  on  producing  a  new  and 
distinct  type.  One  of  the  branches  was  quite  different  from 
all  the  others  on  the  tree.  It  was  pressed  down  and  layered 
in  the  soil  beneath;  when  lo!  a  new  tree  was  produced,  set 
out  beside  its  parent,  whom  it  soon  surpassed  in  size, 
beauty,  and  general  vigor.  Although  still  maintaining  its 
green  and  golden  hues,  it  was  so  distinct  that  no  one  would 
dream  that  it  was  but  a  "sport"  from  the  adjacent  dwarf 
and  modest  tree.  Indeed,  it  reminded  one  of  Beatrix  Es 
mond  beside  her  gentle  and  retiring  mother.  If  it  should 
not  in  the  future  emulate  in  caprice  the  fair  subject  of  com 
parison,  it  may  eventually  become  one  of  the  best-known 
ornaments  of  our  lawns.  At  present  it  appears  nowise  in 
clined  to  hide  its  golden  light  under  a  bushel. 

What  I  have  said  about  forming  the  acquaintance  of 
deciduous  trees  and  shrubs  before  planting  to  any  great 


18  THE   HOME    ACRE 

extent,  applies  with  even  greater  force  to  the  evergreen 
family.  There  is  a  large  and  beautiful  variety  from  which 
to  choose,  and  I  would  suggest  that  the  choice  be  made 
chiefly  from  the  dwarf-growing  kinds,  since  the  space  of 
one  acre  is  too  limited  for  much  indulgence  in  JSorway 
spruces,  the  firs,  or  pines.  An  hour  with  a  note-book  spent 
in  grounds  like  those  of  Mr.  Fuller  would  do  more  in  aiding 
a  satisfactory  selection  than  years  of  reading.  Moreover,  it 
should  be  remembered  that  many  beautiful  evergreens, 
especially  those  of  foreign  origin,  are  but  half  hardy.  The 
amateur  may  find  that  after  an  exceptionally  severe  winter 
some  lovely  specimen,  which  has  grown  to  fill  a  large  space 
in  his  heart,  as  well  as  on  his  acre,  has  been  killed.  There 
is  an  ample  choice  from  entirely  hardy  varieties  for  every 
locality,  and  these,  by  careful  inquiry  of  trustworthy 
nurserymen,  should  be  obtained. 

Moreover,  it  should  be  remembered  that  few  evergreens 
will  thrive  in  a  wet,  heavy  soil.  If  Nature  has  not  pro 
vided  thorough  drainage  by  means  of  a  porous  subsoil,  the 
work  must  be  done  artificially.  As  a  rule,  light  but  not 
poor  soils,  and  warm  exposures,  are  best  adapted  to  this 
genus  of  trees. 

I  think  that  all  authorities  agree  substantially  that  spring 
in  our  climate  is  the  best  time  for  the  transplanting  of  ever 
greens;  but  they  differ  between  early  and  advanced  spring. 
The  late  Mr.  A.  J.  Downing  preferred  early  spring;  that  is, 
as  soon  as  the  frost  is  out,  and  the  ground  dry  enough  to 
crumble  freely.  Mr.  A.  S.  Fuller  indorses  this  opinion. 
Mr.  Josiah  Hoopes,  author  of  a  valuable  work  entitled 
"The  Book  of  Evergreens,"  advises  that  transplanting  be 
deferred  to  later  spring,  when  the  young  trees  are  just 
beginning  their  season's  growth;  and  this  view  has  the 
approval  of  the  Hon.  Marshall  P.  Wilder  and  Mr.  S.  B. 
Parsons,  Jr.,  Superintendent  of  City  Parks.  Abundant 
success  is  undoubtedly  achieved  at  both  seasons;  but 
should  a  hot,  dry  period  ensue  after  the  later  planting — 


TREE-PLANTING  19 

early  May,  for  instance — only  abundant  watering  and  dili 
gent  mulching  will  save  the  trees. 

It  should  be  carefully  remembered  that  the  evergreen 
families  do  not  possess  the  vitality  of  deciduous  trees,  and 
are  more  easily  injured  or  killed  by  removal.  The  roots  of 
the  former  are  more  sensitive  to  exposure  to  dry  air  and 
to  sunlight;  and  much  more  certainty  of  life  and  growth 
is  secured  if  the  transfer  can  be  accomplished  in  cloudy 
or  rainy  weather.  The  roots  should  never  be  permitted  to 
become  dry,  and  it  is  well  also  to  sprinkle  the  foliage  at  the 
time  of  planting.  Moreover,  do  not  permit  careless  work 
men  to  save  a  few  minutes  in  the  digging  of  the  trees. 
Every  fibrous  root  that  can  be  preserved  intact  is  a  promise 
of  life  and  vigor.  If  a  nurseryman  should  send  me  an  as 
sortment  of  evergreens  with  only  the  large  woody  roots  left, 
I  should  refuse  to  receive  the  trees. 

What  I  have  said  in  opposition  to  the  transplanting  of 
large  trees  applies  with  greater  force  to  evergreens.  Mr. 
Hoopes  writes:  "An  error  into  which  many  unpracticed 
planters  frequently  fall  is  that  of  planting  large  trees;  and 
it  is  one  which  we  consider  opposed  to  sound  common- 
sense.  We  are  aware  that  the  owner  of  every  new  place  is 
anxious  to  produce  what  is  usually  known  as  an  immediate 
effect,  and  therefore  he  proceeds  to  plant  large  evergreens, 
covering  his  grounds  with  great  unsightly  trees.  In  almost 
every  case  of  this  kind  the  lower  limbs  are  apt  to  die,  and 
thus  greatly  disfigure  the  symmetry  of  the  trees.  Young, 
healthy  plants,  when  carefully  taken  up  and  as  properly 
replanted,  are  never  subject  to  this  disfigurement,  and  are 
almost  certain  to  form  handsome  specimens. ' ' 

Any  one  who  has  seen  the  beautiful  pyramids,  cones, 
and  mounds  of  green  into  which  so  many  varieties  develop, 
if  permitted  to  grow  according  to  the  laws  of  their  being, 
should  not  be  induced  to  purchase  old  and  large  trees  which 
nurserymen  are  often  anxious  to  part  with  before  they  be 
come  utterly  unsalable. 

When  the  evergreens  reach  the  acre,  plant  them  with 
16— ROE— XI 


20  THE   HOME    ACRE 

the  same  care  and  on  the  same  general  principles  indicated 
for  other  trees.  Let  the  soil  be  mellow  and  good.  Mulch 
at  once,  and  water  abundantly  the  first  summer  during  dry 
periods.  Be  sure  that  the  trees  are  not  set  any  deeper  in 
the  ground  than  they  stood  before  removal.  If  the  soil  of 
the  acre  is  heavy  or  poor,  go  to  the  roadside  or  some  old 
pasture  and  find  rich  light  soil  with  which  to  fill  in  around 
the  roots.  If  no  soil  can  be  found  without  a  large  propor 
tion  of  clay,  the  addition  of  a  little  sand,  thoroughly  mixed 
through  it,  is  beneficial.  The  hole  should  be  ample  in  size, 
so  that  the  roots  can  be  spread  out  according  to  their  natural 
bent.  If  the  ground  after  planting  needs  enriching,  spread 
the  fertilizer  around  the  trees,  not  against  them,  and  on  the 
surface  only.  Never  put  manure  on  or  very  near  the  roots. 

Fine  young  seedling  evergreens  can  often  be  found  in 
the  woods  or  fields,  and  may  be  had  for  the  asking,  or  for 
$,  trifling  sum.  Dig  them  so  as  to  save  all  the  roots  possi 
ble.  Never  permit  these  to  become  dry  till  they  are  safe 
in  your  own  grounds.  Aim  to  start  the  little  trees  under 
the  same  conditions  in  which  you  found  them  in  Nature. 
If  taken  from  a  shady  spot,  they  should  be  shaded  for  a 
season  or  two,  until  they  become  accustomed  to  sunlight. 
This  can  easily  be  accomplished  by  four  crotched  stakes 
supporting  a  light  scaffolding,  on  which  is  placed  during 
the  hot  months  a  few  evergreen  boughs. 

Very  pretty  and  useful  purposes  can  often  be  served  by 
the  employment  of  certain  kinds  of  evergreens  as  hedges. 
I  do  not  like  the  arbitrary  and  stiff  divisions  of  a  small 
place  which  I  have  often  seen.  They  take  away  the  sense 
of  roominess,  and  destroy  the  possibility  of  pretty  little 
vistas;  but  when  used  judiciously  as  screens  they  combine 
much  beauty  with  utility.  As  part  of  line  fences  they  are 
often  eminently  satisfactory,  shutting  out  prying  eyes  and 
inclosing  the  home  within  walls  of  living  green.  The  strong- 
growing  pines  and  Norway  spruce  are  better  adapted  to  large 
estates  than  to  the  area  of  an  acre.  Therefore  we  would  ad 
vise  the  employment  of  the  American  arbor  vitae  and  of 


TREE-PLANTING  21 

hemlock.  The  hedge  of  the  latter  evergreen  on  Mr.  Ful 
ler's  place  formed  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  symmetri 
cal  walls  I  have  ever  seen.  It  was  so  smooth,  even,  and 
impervious  that  in  the  distance  it  appeared  like  solid 
emerald. 

The  ground  should  be  thoroughly  prepared  for  a  hedge 
by  deep  plowing  or  by  digging;  the  trees  should  be  small, 
young,  of  even  height  and  size,  and  they  should  be  planted 
carefully  in  line,  according  to  the  directions  already  given 
for  a  single  specimen;  the  ground  on  each  side  mulched  and 
kept  moist  during  the  first  summer.  In  the  autumn,  rake 
the  mulch  away  and  top-dress  the  soil  on  both  sides  for  the 
space  of  two  or  three  feet  outward  from  the  stems  with  well- 
decayed  manure.  This  protects  the  roots  and  ensures  a  vig 
orous  growth  the  coming  season.  Allow  no  weeds  or  even 
grass  to  encroach  on  the  young  hedge  until  it  is  strong  and 
established.  For  the  first  year  no  trimming  will  be  neces 
sary  beyond  cutting  back  an  occasional  branch  or  top  that 
is  growing  stronger  than  the  others;  and  this  should  be 
done  in  early  October.  During  the  second  season  the  plants 
should  grow  much  more  strongly ;  and  now  the  shears  are 
needed  in  summer.  Some  branches  and  top  shoots  will 
push  far  beyond  the  others.  They  should  be  cut  back 
evenly,  and  in  accordance  with  the  shape  the  hedge  is  to 
take.  The  pyramidal  form  appears  to  me  to  be  the  one 
most  in  harmony  with  Nature.  In  October,  the  hedge 
should  receive  its  final  shearing  for  the  year;  and  if  there 
is  an  apparent  deficiency  of  vigor,  the  ground  on  both  sides 
should  receive  another  top-dressing,  after  removing  the  sum 
mer  mulch.  As  the  hedge  grows  older  and  stronger,  the 
principal  shearing  will  be  done  in  early  summer,  as  this 
checks  growth  and  causes  the  close,  dense  interlacing  of 
branches  and  formation  of  foliage  wherein  the  beauty  and 
usefulness  of  the  hedge  consist. 


THE   HOME   ACRE 


CHAPTER  II 

FRUIT-TREES   AND   GRASS 

IT  is  a  happy  proof  of  our  civilization  that  a  dwelling- 
place,  a  shelter  from  sun  and  storm,  does  not  consti 
tute  a  home.     Even  the  modest  rooms  of  our  mechan 
ics  are  not  furnished  with  useful  articles  merely;  ornaments 
and  pictures  appear  quite  as  indispensable.     Out-of-doors 
the  impulse  to  beautify  is  even  stronger;  and  usually  the 
purchaser's  first  effort  is  to  make  his  place  attractive  by 
means  of  trees  and  shrubs  that  are  more  than  useful — they 
are  essential;  because  the  refined  tastes  of  men  and  women 
to-day  demand  them. 

In  the  first  chapter  I  endeavored  to  satisfy  this  demand 
in  some  degree,  and  now  will  ask  the  reader's  attention  to  a 
few  practical  suggestions  in  regard  to  several  of  the  fruits 
which  best  supply  the  family  need.  We  shall  find,  how 
ever,  that  while  Nature  is  prodigal  in  supplying  what  ap 
peals  to  the  palate  and  satisfies  hunger,  she  is  also  like  a 
graceful  hostess  who  decks  her  banquet  with  all  the  beauty 
that  she  can  possibly  bestow  upon  it.  We  can  imagine  that 
the  luscious  fruits  of  the  year  might  have  been  produced  in 
a  much  more  prosaic  way.  Indeed,  we  are  at  a  loss  to  decide 
which  we  value  the  more,  the  apple- blossoms  or  the  apples 
which  follow.  Nature  is  not  content  with  bulk,  flavor,  and 
nutriment,  but  in  the  fruit  itself  so  deftly  pleases  the  eye 
with  every  trick  of  color  and  form  that  the  hues  and  beauty 
of  the  flower  are  often  surpassed.  We  look  at  a  red -cheeked 
apple  or  purple  cluster  of  grapes  hesitatingly,  and  are  loth 
to  mar  the  exquisite  shadings  and  perfect  outlines  of  the 
vessel  in  which  the  rich  juices  are  served.  Therefore,  in 


FRUIT-TREES    AND    GRASS  23 

stocking  the  acre  with  fruit,  the  proprietor  has  not  ceased 
to  embellish  it;  and  should  he  decide  that  fruit-trees  must 
predominate  over  those  grown  for  shade  and  ornament  only, 
he  can  combine  almost  as  much  beauty  as  utility  with  his 
plan. 

All  the  fruits  may  be  set  out  both  in  the  spring  and  the 
fall  seasons;  but  in  our  latitude  and  northward,  I  should 
prefer  early  spring  for  strawberries  and  peaches. 

By  this  time  we  may  suppose  that  the  owner  of  the  acre 
has  matured  his  plans,  and  marked  out  the  spaces  designed 
for  the  lawn,  garden,  fruit-trees,  vines,  etc.  Fruit-trees, 
like  shade-trees,  are  not  the  growth  of  a  summer.  There 
fore  there  is  natural  eagerness  to  have  them  in  the  ground 
as  soon  as  possible,  and  they  can  usually  be  ordered  from 
the  same  nursery,  and  at  the  same  time  with  the  ornamental 
stock.  I  shall  speak  first  of  apples,  pears,  and  cherries,  and 
I  have  been  at  some  pains  to  secure  the  opinions  of  eminent 
horticulturists  as  to  the  best  selections  of  these  fruits  for 
the  home  table,  not  for  market.  When  there  is  a  surplus, 
however,  there  will  be  no  difficulty  in  disposing  of  the  fine 
varieties  named. 

The  Hon.  Marshall  P.  Wilder,  the  veteran  President  of 
the  American  Pomological  Society,  writes  as  follows:  "Here 
with  is  the  selection  I  have  made  for  family  use;  but  I  could 
put  in  as  many  more  in  some  of  the  classes  which  are  just  as 
desirable,  or  nearly  so.  These  have  been  made  with  refer 
ence  to  covering  the  seasons.  Apples — Red  Astrakhan, 
Porter,  Gravenstein,  Rhode  Island  Greening,  Baldwin, 
Roxbury  Russet,  and  Sweet  Bough  for  baking.  Pears— 
Clapp's  Favorite  (to  be  gathered  August  20),  Bartlett, 
Seckel,  Sheldon,  Beurre"  Bosc,  Buerre"  d'Anjou,  and  Vicar 
of  Winkfield  for  baking,  etc.  Cherries — Black  Eagle, 
Black  Tartarian,  Downer,  Windsor,  Cumberland,  and  Red 
Jacket." 

Mr.  Wilder's  honored  name,  like  that  of  the  late  Charles 
Downing,  is  inseparably  linked  with  American  fruits,  and 
the  country  owes  these  two  men  a  debt  of  gratitude  which 


24  THE   HOME   ACRE 

never  can  be  paid  for  their  lifelong  and  intelligent  efforts 
to  guide  the  people  wisely  in  the  choice  and  culture  of  the 
very  best  varieties.  A  moment's  thought  will  convince  the 
reader  that  I  am  not  giving  too  much  space  to  this  matter  of 
selection.  We  are  now  dealing  with  questions  which  wide 
and  varied  experience  can  best  answer.  Men  who  give 
their  lives  to  the  cultivation  and  observation  of  fruits  in 
all  their  myriad  varieties  acquire  a  knowledge  which  is  al 
most  invaluable.  We  cannot  afford  to  put  out  trees,  to  give 
them  good  culture,  and  wait  for  years,  only  to  learn  that  all 
our  care  has  been  bestowed  on  inferior  or  second-rate  varie 
ties.  Life  is  too  brief.  We  all  feel  that  the  best  is  good 
enough  for  us;  and  the  best  usually  costs  no  more  in  money 
or  time  than  do  less  desirable  varieties.  Therefore  I  seek 
to  give  on  this  important  question  of  choice  the  opinions  of 
some  of  the  highest  authorities  in  the  land. 

Mr.  A.  S.  Fuller  is  not  only  a  well-known  horticultural 
author,  but  has  also  had  the  widest  experience  in  the  cul 
ture  and  observation  of  fruit.  He  prefaces  his  opinion  with 
the  following  words:  "How  much  and  how  often  we  horti 
culturists  have  been  puzzled  with  questions  like  yours!  If 
we  made  no  progress,  were  always  of  the  same  mind,  and  if 
seasons  never  changed,  then  perhaps  there  would  be  little 
difficulty  in  deciding  which  of  the  varieties  of  the  different 
kinds  of  fruit  were  really  the  best.  But  seasons,  our  tastes, 
and  even  the  varieties  sometimes  change;  and  our  prefer 
ences  and  opinions  must  vary  accordingly.  Apples — Early 
Harvest,  Fall  Pippins,  Spitzenburgh,  Rhode  Island  Green 
ing,  Autumn  Sweet  Bough,  and  Talman's  Sweet.  Cherries 
— Early  Purple  Guigne,  Bigarreau  of  Mezel,  Black  Eagle, 
Coe's  Transparent,  Governor  Wood,  and  Belle  Magnifique." 

The  choice  of  Mr.  E.  S.  Carmen,  editor  of  the  "Rural 
New  Yorker:"  "Apples — Early  Harvest,  Gravenstein,  Jef- 
feris,  Baldwin,  Mother,  Spitzenburgh.  Pears — Seckel,  Ty 
son,  Clapp's  Favorite,  Bartlett,  Beurre*  d'Anjou,  and  Dana's 
Hovey.  Cherries — Black  Tartarian,  Coe's  Transparent,  Gov 
ernor  Wood,  Mezel,  Napoleon  Bigarreau." 


FRUIT-TREES   AND    ORASS  25 

The  authorities  appear  to  differ.  And  so  they  would  in 
regard  to  any  locality;  but  it  should  be  remembered  that 
President  Wilder  advises  for  the  latitude  of  Massachusetts, 
Messrs.  Fuller  and  Carmen  for  that  of  New  Jersey.  I  will 
give  now  the  selection  of  the  eminent  horticulturist  Mr.  P. 
C.  Berckmans  for  the  latitude  of  Georgia:  "Cherries  (this 
is  not  a  good  cherry-producing  region,  but  I  name  the  fol 
lowing  as  the  best  in  order  of  merit) — Buttners,  Governor 
Wood,  Belle  de  Choisy,  Early  .Richmond,  and  May  Duke. 
Pears  (in  order  of  maturity) — Clapp's  Favorite,  Seckel, 
Duchesse,  Beurre"  Superfine,  Leconte,  Winter  Nellis,  or 
Glout.  Morceau.  Apples — Early  Harvest,  Bed  June, 
Carter's  Blue,  Stevenson's  Winter,  Shockley,  Buncombe, 
Carolina  Greening." 

He  who  makes  his  choice  from  these  selections  will  not 
meet  with  much  disappointment.  1  am  aware,  however, 
that  the  enjoyment  of  fruit  depends  much  upon  the  taste  of 
the  individual;  and  who  has  a  better  right  to  gratify  his 
taste  than  the  man  who  buys,  sets  out,  and  cares  for  the 
trees?  Some  familiar  kind  not  in  favor  with  the  fruit 
critics,  an  old  variety  that  has  become  a  dear  memory  of 
boyhood,  may  be  the  best  one  of  all  for  him — perhaps  for 
the  reason  that  it  recalls  the  loved  faces  that  gathered  about 
the  wide,  quaint  fireplace  of  his  childhood's  home. 

It  is  also  a  well-recognized  fact  that  certain  varieties  of 
fruit  appear  to  be  peculiarly  adapted  to  certain  localities. 
Because  a  man  has  made  a  good  selection  on  general  prin 
ciples,  he  need  not  be  restricted  to  this  choice.  He  will 
soon  find  his  trees  growing  lustily  and  making  large  branch 
ing  heads.  Each  branch  can  be  made  to  produce  a  different 
kind  of  apple  or  pear,  and  the  kindred  varieties  of  cherries 
will  succeed  on  the  same  tree.  For  instance,  one  may  be 
visiting  a  neighbor  who  gives  him  some  fruit  that  is  unusu 
ally  delicious,  or  that  manifest  great  adaptation  to  the  local 
ity.  As  a  rule  the  neighbor  will  gladly  give  scions  which, 
grafted  upon  the  trees  of  the  Home  Acre,  will  soon  begin 
to  yield  the  coveted  variety.  This  opportunity  to  grow 


26  THE   HOME   ACRE 

different  kinds  of  fruit  on  one  tree  imparts  a  new  and  de 
lightful  interest  to  the  orchard.  The  proprietor  can  always 
be  on  the  lookout  for  something  new  and  fine,  and  the  few 
moments  required  in  grafting  or  budding  make  it  his.  The 
operation  is  so  simple  and  easy  that  he  can  learn  to  perform 
it  himself,  and  there  are  always  plenty  of  adepts  in  the  rural 
vicinage  to  give  him  his  initial  lesson.  While  he  will  keep 
the  standard  kinds  for  his  main  supply,  he  can  gratify  his 
taste  and  eye  with  some  pretty  innovations.  I  know  of  an 
apple-tree  which  bears  over  a  hundred  varieties.  A  branch, 
for  instance,  is  producing  Yellow  Bell-flowers.  At  a  cer 
tain  point  in  its  growth  where  it  has  the  diameter  of  a  man's 
thumb  it  may  be  grafted  with  the  Red  Baldwin.  When  the 
scion  has  grown  for  two  or  three  years,  its  leading  shoots 
can  be  grafted  with  the  Roxbury  Russet,  and  eventually 
the  terminal  bough  of  this  growth  with  the  Early  Harvest. 
Thus  may  be  presented  the  interesting  spectacle  of  one  limb 
of  a  tree  yielding  four  very  distinct  kinds  of  apples. 

In  the  limited  area  of  an  acre  there  is  usually  not  very 
much  range  in  soil  and  locality.  The  owner  must  make  the 
best  of  what  he  has  bought,  and  remedy  unfavorable  condi 
tions,  if  they  exist,  by  skill.  It  should  be  remembered  that 
peaty,  cold,  damp,  spongy  soils  are  unfit  for  fruit-trees  of 
any  kind.  We  can  scarcely  imagine,  however,  that  one 
would  buy  land  for  a  home  containing  much  soil  of  this 
nature.  A  sandy  loam,  with  a  subsoil  that  dries  out  so 
quickly  that  it  can  be  worked  after  a  heavy  rain,  is  the 
best  for  nearly  all  the  fruit-trees,  especially  for  cherries  and 
peaches.  Therefore  in  selecting  the  ground,  be  sure  it  is 
well  drained. 

If  the  acre  has  been  enriched  and  plowed  twice  deeply, 
as  I  have  already  suggested,  little  more  is  necessary  in 
planting  than  to  excavate  a  hole  large  enough  to  receive 
the  roots  spread  out  in  their  natural  positions.  Should  no 
such  thorough  and  general  preparation  have  been  made,  or 
if  the  ground  is  hard,  poor,  and  stony,  the  owner  will  find 
it  to  his  advantage  to  dig  a  good-sized  hole  three  or  four 


FRUIT-TREES    AKD    OR  ASS  27 

feet  across  and  two  deep,  filling  in  and  around  the  tree 
with  fine  rich  surface  soil.  If  he  can  obtain  some  thor 
oughly  decomposed  compost  or  manure,  for  instance,  as 
the  scrapings  of  a  barnyard,  or  rich  black  soil  from  an  old 
pasture,  to  mix  with  the  earth  beneath  and  around  the  roots, 
the  good  effects  will  be  seen  speedily;  but  in  no  instance 
should  raw  manure  from  the  stable,  or  anything  that  must 
decay  before  becoming  plant- food,  be  brought  in  contact 
with  the  roots.  Again  I  repeat  my  caution  against  planting 
too  deeply — one  of  the  commonest  and  most  fatal  errors. 
Let  the  tree  be  set  about  as  deeply  as  it  stood  before  re 
moval.  If  the  tree  be  planted  early  in  spring,  as  it  should 
be,  there  will  be  moisture  enough  in  the  soil;  but  when 
planting  is  delayed  until  the  ground  has  become  rather  dry 
and  warm,  a  pail  of  water  poured  about  its  roots  when  the 
hole  has  been  nearly  filled  will  be  beneficial.  Now  that  the 
tree  is  planted,  any  kind  of  coarse  manure  spread  to  the 
depth  of  two  or  three  inches  on  the  surface  as  a  mulch  is 
very  useful.  Stake  at  once  to  protect  against  the  winds. 
Do  not  make  the  common  mistake  of  planting  too  closely. 
Observe  the  area  shaded  by  fully  grown  trees,  and  you  will 
learn  the  folly  of  crowding.  Moreover,  dense  shade  about 
the  house  is  not  desirable.  There  should  be  space  for  plenty 
of  air  and  sunshine.  The  fruit  from  one  well- developed  tree 
will  often  more  than  supply  a  family;  for  ten  or  fifteen  bar 
rels  of  apples  is  not  an  unusual  yield.  The  standard  apples 
should  be  thirty  feet  apart.  Pears,  the  dwarfer-growing 
cherries,  plums,  etc.,  can  be  grown  in  the  intervening 
spaces.  In  ordering  from  the  nurseries  insist  on  straight, 
shapely,  and  young  trees,  say  three  years  from  the  bud. 
Many  trees  that  are  sent  out  are  small  enough,  but  they  are 
old  and  stunted.  Also  require  that  there  should  be  an 
abundance  of  fibrous  and  unmutilated  roots. 

Because  the  young  trees  come  from  the  nursery  un- 
pruned,  do  not  leave  them  in  that  condition.  Before  plant 
ing,  or  immediately  after,  cut  back  all  the  branches  at  least 
one- half ;  and  where  they  are  too  thick,  cut  out  some  alto- 


28  THE   HOME    ACRE 

gether.  In  removal  the  tree  has  lost  much  of  its  root  power, 
and  it  is  absurd  to  expect  it  to  provide  for  just  as  much  top 
as  before. 

In  many  books  on  fruit-culture  much  space  has  been 
given  to  dwarf  pears,  apples,  and  cherries,  and  trees  of  this 
character  were  planted  much  more  largely  some  years  ago 
than  they  are  at  present.  The  pear  is  dwarfed  by  grafting 
it  on  the  quince;  the  apple  can  be  limited  to  a  mere  garden 
fruit-tree  in  size  by  being  grown  on  a  Doucin  stock,  or  even 
reduced  to  the  size  of  a  bush  if  compelled  to  draw  its  life 
through  the  roots  of  the  Paradise.  These  two  named  stocks, 
much  employed  by  European  nurserymen,  are  distinct  spe 
cies  of  apples,  and  reproduce  themselves  without  variation 
from  the  seed.  The  cherry  is  dwarfed  by  being  worked  on 
the  Mahaleb — a  small,  handsome  tree,  with  glossy,  deep- 
green  foliage,  much  cultivated  abroad  as  an  ornament  of 
lawns.  Except  in  the  hands  of  practiced  gardeners,  trees 
thus  dwarfed  are  seldom  satisfactory,  for  much  skill  and 
care  are  required  in  their  cultivation.  Their  chief  advan 
tages  consist  in  the  fact  that  they  bear  early  and  take  but 
little  space.  Therefore  they  may  be  considered  worthy  of 
attention  by  the  purchasers  of  small  places,,  Those  who 
are  disposed  to  make  pets  of  their  trees  and  to  indulge  in 
horticultural  experiments  may  derive  much  pleasure  from 
these  dwarfs,  for  they  can  be  developed  into  symmetrical 
pyramids  or  graceful,  fruitful  shrubs  within  the  limits  of  a 
garden  border. 

When  the  seeds  of  ordinary  apples  and  pears  are  sown 
they  produce  seedlings,  or  free  stocks,  and  upon  these  are 
budded  or  grafted  the  fine  varieties  which  compose  our  or 
chards.  They  are  known  as  standard  trees;  they  come  into 
bearing  more  slowly,  and  eventually  attain  the  normal  size 
familiar  to  us  all.  Standard  cherries  are  worked  on  seed 
lings  of  the  Mazzard,  which  Barry  describes  as  a  "lofty, 
rapid-growing,  pyramidal- headed  tree."  I  should  advise 
the  reader  to  indulge  in  the  dwarfs  very  charily,  and  chiefly 
as  a  source  of  fairly  profitable  amusement  It  is  to  the 


FRUIT-TREES   AND    GRASS  29 

standards  that  he  will  look  for  shade,  beauty,  and  abun 
dance  of  fruit. 

Since  we  have  been  dwelling  on  the  apple,  pear,  and 
cherry,  there  are  certain  advantages  of  continuing  the  sub 
ject  in  the  same  connection,  giving  the  principles  of  cultiva 
tion  and  care  until  the  trees  reach  maturity.  During  the 
first  summer  an  occasional  watering  may  be  required  in 
long  periods  of  drought.  In  many  instances  buds  will 
form  and  start  along  the  stem  of  the  tree,  or  near  the  roots. 
These  should  be  rubbed  off  the  moment  they  are  detected. 

One  of  our  chief  aims  is  to  form  an  evenly  balanced, 
open,  symmetrical  head;  and  this  can  often  be  accom 
plished  better  by  a  little  watchfulness  during  the  season 
of  growth  than  at  any  other  time.  If,  for  instance,  two 
branches  start  so  closely  together  that  one  or  the  other 
must  be  removed  in  the  spring  pruning,  why  let  the  super 
fluous  one  grow  at  all  ?  It  is  just  so  much  wasted  effort. 
By  rubbing  off  the  pushing  bud  or  tender  shoot  the  strength 
of  the  tree  is  thrown  into  the  branches  that  we  wish  to  re 
main.  Thus  the  eye  and  hand  of  the  master  become  to  the 
young  tree  what  instruction,  counsel,  and  admonition  are 
to  a  growing  boy,  with  the  difference  that  the  tree  is  easily 
and  certainly  managed  when  taken  in  time. 

The  study  of  the  principles  of  growth  in  the  young  trees 
can  be  made  as  pleasing  as  it  is  profitable,  for  the  readiness 
with  which  they  respond  to  a  guiding  hand  will  soon  invest 
them  with  almost  a  human  interest.  A  child  will  not  show 
neglect  more  certainly  than  they;  and  if  humored  and 
allowed  to  grow  after  their  own  fashion,  they  will  soon 
prove  how  essential  are  restraint  and  training.  A  fruit  tree 
is  not  like  one  in  a  forest — a  simple,  unperverted  product 
of  Nature.  It  is  a  result  of  human  interference  and  develop 
ment;  and  we  might  just  as  reasonably  expect  our  domestic 
animals  to  take  care  of  themselves  as  our  grafted  and 
'budded  trees.  Moreover,  they  do  not  comply  with  their 
raison  d'etre  by  merely  existing,  growing,  and  propagating 
their  kind.  A  Bartlett  pear-tree,  like  a  Jersey  cow,  is  given 


30  THE   HOME    ACRE 

place  for  the  sake  of  its  delicious  product.  It  is  also  like 
the  cow  in  requiring  judicious  feeding  and  care. 

Trees  left  to  themselves  tend  to  form  too  much  wood, 
like  the  grape-vine.  Of  course  fine  fruit  is  impossible 
when  the  head  of  a  tree  is  like  a  thicket.  The  growth 
of  unchecked  branches  follows  the  terminal  bud,  thus 
producing  long  naked  reaches  of  wood  devoid  of  fruit 
spurs.  Therefore  the  need  of  shortening  in,  so  that  side 
branches  may  be  developed.  When  the  reader  remem 
bers  that  every  dormant  bud  in  early  spring  is  a  possible 
branch,  and  that  even  the  immature  buds  at  the  axil  of  the 
leaves  in  early  summer  can  be  forced  into  immediate  growth 
by  pinching  back  the  leading  shoot,  he  will  see  how  entirely 
the  young  tree  is  under  his  control.  These  simple  facts  and 
principles  are  worth  far  more  to  the  intelligent  man  than 
any  number  of  arbitrary  rules  as  to  pruning.  Eeason  and 
observation  soon  guide  his  hand  in  summer  or  his  knife  in 
March — the  season  when  trees  are  usually  trimmed. 

Beyond  shortening  in  leading  branches  and  cutting  out 
crossing  and  interfering  boughs,  so  as  to  keep  the  head 
symmetrical  and  open  to  light  and  air,  the  cherry  does  not 
need  very  much  pruning.  If  with  the  lapse  of  years  it  be 
comes  necessary  to  take  off  large  limbs  from  any  fruit-tree, 
the  authorities  recommend  early  June  as  the  best  season 
for  the  operation. 

It  will  soon  be  discovered — quite  likely  during  the  first 
summer — that  fruit-trees  have  enemies,  that  they  need  not 
only  cultivation  and  feeding,  but  also  protection.  The  pear, 
apple,  and  quince  are  liable  to  one  mysterious  disease  which 
it  is  almost  impossible  to  guard  against  or  cure — the  fire- 
blight.  Of  course  there  have  been  innumerable  preventives 
and  cures  recommended,  just  as  we  see  a  dozen  certain  rem 
edies  for  consumption  advertised  in  any  popular  journal; 
but  the  disease  still  remains  a  disheartening  mystery,  and 
is  more  fatal  to  the  pear  than  to  its  kindred  fruits.  I  have 
Aad  thrifty  young  trees,  just  coming  into  bearing,  suddenly 
turn  black  in  both  wood  and  foliage,  appearing  in  the  dis- 


FRUIT-TREES    AND    GRASS  31 

tance  as  if  scorched  by  a  blast  from  a  furnace.  In  another 
instance  a  large  mature  tree  was  attacked,  losing  in  a  sum 
mer  half  its  boughs.  These  were  cut  out,  and  the  remainder 
of  the  tree  appeared  healthy  during  the  following  summer, 
and  bore  a  good  crop  of  fruit.  The  disease  often  attacks 
but  a  single  branch  or  a  small  portion  of  a  tree.  The  au 
thorities  advise  that  everything  should  be  cut  away  at  once 
below  all  evidence  of  infection  and  burned.  Some  of  my 
trees  have  been  attacked  and  have  recovered;  others  were 
apparently  recovering,  but  died  a  year  or  two  later.  One 
could  theorize  to  the  end  of  a  volume  about  the  trouble. 
I  frankly  confess  that  I  know  neither  the  cause  nor  the 
remedy.  It  seems  to  me  that  our  best  resource  is  to  comply 
with  the  general  conditions  of  good  and  healthy  growth. 
The  usual  experience  is  that  trees  which  are  fertilized  with 
wood-ashes  and  a  moderate  amount  of  lime  and  salt,  rather 
than  with  stimulating  manures,  escape  the  disease.  If  the  ( 
ground  is  poor,  however,  and  the  growth  feeble,  barnyard 
manure  or  its  equivalent  is  needed  as  a  mulch.  The  apple- 
blight  is  another  kindred  and  equally  obscure  disease.  No 
better  remedy  is  known  than  to  cut  out  the  infected  part 
at  once. 

In  coping  with  insects  we  can  act  more  intelligently,  and 
therefore  successfully.  We  can  study  the  characters  of  our 
enemies,  and  learn  their  vulnerable  points.  The  black 
and  green  aphides,  or  plant-lice,  are  often  very  trouble 
some.  They  appear  in  immense  numbers  on  the  young 
and  tender  shoots  of  trees,  and  by  sucking  their  juices 
check  or  enfeeble  the  growth.  They  are  the  milch-cows 
of  ants,  which  are  usually  found  very  busy  among  them. 
Nature  apparently  has  made  ample  provision  for  this  pest, 
for  it  has  been  estimated  that  "one  individual  in  five  gen 
erations  might  be  the  progenitor  of  six  thousand  millions." 
They  are  easily  destroyed,  however.  Mr.  Barry,  of  the  firm 
of  Ellwanger  &  Barry,  in  his  excellent  work  "The  Fruit 
Garden,"  writes  as  follows:  "Our  plan  is  to  prepare  a 
"barrel  of  tobacco  juice  by  steeping  stems  for  several  days, 


82  THE   HOME   ACRE 

until  the  juice  is  of  a  dark  brown  color;  we  then  mix  this 
with  soap-suds.  A  pail  is  filled,  and  the  ends  of  the  shoots, 
where  the  insects  are  assembled,  are  bent  down  and  dipped 
in  the  liquid.  One  dip  is  enough.  Such  parts  as  cannot  be 
dipped  are  sprinkled  liberally  with  a  garden-syringe,  and 
the  application  repeated  from  time  to  time,  as  long  as  any 
of  the  aphides  remain.  The  liquid  may  be  so  strong  as  to 
injure  the  foliage;  therefore  it  is  well  to  test  it  on  one  or 
two  subjects  before  using  it  extensively.  Apply  it  in  the 
evening. ' ' 

The  scaly  aphis  or  bark- louse  attacks  weak,  feeble-grow 
ing  trees,  and  can  usually  be  removed  by  scrubbing  the 
bark  with  the  preparation  given  above. 

In  our  region  and  in  many  localities  the  apple-tree  borer 
is  a  very  formidable  pest,  often  destroying  a  young  tree 
before  its  presence  is  known.  I  once  found  a  young  tree  in 
a  distant  part  of  my  place  that  I  could  push  over  with  my 
finger.  In  June  a  brown  and  white  striped  beetle  deposits 
its  eggs  in  the  bark  of  the  apple-tree  near  the  ground.  The 
larvae  when  hatched  bore  their  way  into  the  wood,  and  will 
soon  destroy  a  small  tree.  They  cannot  do  their  mischief, 
however,  without  giving  evidence  of  their  presence.  Saw 
dust  exudes  from  the  holes  by  which  they  entered,  and 
there  should  be  sufficient  watchfulness  to  discover  them 
before  they  have  done  much  harm.  I  prefer  to  cut  them 
out  with  a  sharp,  pointed  knife,  and  make  sure  that  they 
are  dead;  but  a  wire  thrust  into  the  hole  will  usually  pierce 
and  kill  them.  Wood-ashes  mounded  up  against  the  base 
of  the  tree  are  said  to  be  a  preventive.  In  the  fall  they 
can  be  spread,  and  they  at  least  make  one  of  the  best  of 
fertilizers. 

The  codling- moth,  or  apple-worm,  is  another  enemy  that 
should*  be  fought  resolutely,  for  it  destroys  millions  of 
bushels  of  fruit.  In  the  latitude  of  New  York  State  this 
moth  begins  its  depredations  about  the  middle  of  June. 
Whatever  may  be  thought  of  the  relation  of  the  apple  to 
the  fall  of  man,  this  creature  certainly  leads  to  the  speedy 


FRUIT-TREES    AND    GRASS  33 

fall  of  the  apple.  Who  has  not  seen  the  ground  covered 
with  premature  and  decaying  fruit  in  July,  August,  and 
September?  Each  specimen  will  be  found  perforated  by 
a  worm- hole.  The  egg  has  been  laid  in  the  calyx  of  the 
young  apple,  where  it  soon  hatches  into  a  small  white  grub, 
which  burrows  into  the  core,  throwing  out  behind  it  a 
brownish  powder.  After  about  three  weeks  of  apple  diet 
it  eats  its  way  out,  shelters  itself  under  the  scaly  bark  of 
the  tree — if  allowed  to  be  scaly— or  in  some  other  hiding- 
place,  spins  a  cocoon,  and  in  about  three  weeks  comes  out 
a  moth,  and  is  ready  to  help  destroy  other  apples.  This 
insect  probably  constitutes  one  of  Nature's  methods  of  pre 
venting  trees  from  overbearing;  but  like  some  people  we 
know,  it  so  exaggerates  its  mission  as  to  become  an  insuffer 
able  nuisance.  The  remedies  recommended  are  that  trees 
should  be  scraped  free  of  all  scales  in  the  spring,  and 
washed  with  a  solution  of  soft  soap.  About  the  1st  of  July, 
wrap  bandages  of  old  cloth,  carpet,  or  rags  of  any  kind 
around  the  trunk  and  larger  limbs.  The  worms  will  appre 
ciate  such  excellent  cover,  and  will  swarm  into  these  hiding- 
places  to  undergo  transformation  into  moths.  Therefore 
the  wraps  of  rags  should  often  be  taken  down,  thrown 
into  scalding  water,  dried,  and  replaced.  The  fruit  as  it 
falls  should  be  picked  up  at  once  and  carried  to  the  pigs, 
and,  when  practicable,  worm-infested  specimens  should  be 
taken  from  the  trees  before  the  worm  escapes. 

The  canker-worm  in  those  localities  where  it  is  destruc 
tive  can  be  guarded  against  by  bands  of  tar-covered  canvas 
around  the  trees.  The  moth  cannot  fly,  but  crawls  up  the 
tree  in  the  late  autumn  and  during  mild  spells  in  winter, 
but  especially  throughout  the  spring  until  May.  When 
the  evil-disposed  moth  meets  the  tarry  band  he  finds  no 
thoroughfare,  and  is  either  caught  or  compelled  to  seek 
some  other  arena  of  mischief. 

We  have  all  seen  the  flaunting,  unsightly  abodes  of  the 
tent  caterpillar  and  the  foliage-denuded  branches  about 
them.  Fortunately  these  are  not  stealthy  -enemies,  and  the 


84  THE   HOME   ACRE    • 

owner  can  scarcely  see  his  acre  at  all  without  being  aware 
of  their  presence.  He  has  only  to  look  very  early  in  the 
morning  or  late  in  the  evening  to  find  them  all  bunched  up 
in  their  nests.  These  should  be  taken  down  and  destroyed. 

Cherry  and  pear  slugs,  "small,  slimy,  dark  brown 
worms,"  can  be  destroyed  by  dusting  the  trees  with  dry 
wood  ashes  or  air-slacked  lime. 

Field-mice  often  girdle  young  trees,  especially  during 
the  winter,  working  beneath  the  snow.  Unless  heaps  of 
rubbish  are  left  here  and  there  as  shelter  for  these  little 
pests,  one  or  two  good  cats  will  keep  the  acre  free  of  them. 
Treading  the  snow  compactly  around  the  tree  is  also 
practiced. 

Do  not  let  the  reader  be  discouraged  by  this  list  of  the 
most  common  enemies,  or  by  hearing  of  others.  After 
reading  some  medical  works  we  are  led  to  wonder  that 
the  human  race  does  not  speedily  die  out.  As  a  rule,  how 
ever,  with  moderate  care,  most  of  us  are  able  to  say,  "I'm 
pretty  well,  I  thank  you,"  and  when  ailing  we  do  not 
straightway  despair.  In  spite  of  all  enemies  and  draw 
backs,  fruit  is  becoming  more  plentiful  every  year.  If  one 
man  can  raise  it,  so  can  another. 

Be  hospitable  to  birds,  the  best  of  all  insect  destroyers. 
Put  up  plenty  of  houses  for  bluebirds  and  wrens,  and  treat 
the  little  brown  song- sparrow  as  one  of  your  stanchest 
friends. 

A  brief  word  in  regard  to  the  quince,  and  our  present 
list  of  fruits  is  complete. 

If  the  quince  is  cultivated  after  the  common  neglectful 
method,  it  would  better  be  relegated  to  an  obscure  part  of 
the  garden,  for,  left  to  itself,  it  makes  a  great  sprawling 
bush;  properly  trained,  it  becomes  a  beautiful  ornament  to 
the  lawn,  like  the  other  fruits  that  I  have  described.  Only 
a  little  care,  with  the  judicious  use  of  the  pruning-shears, 
is  required  to  develop  it  into  a  miniature  and  fruitful  tree, 
which  can  be  grown  with  a  natural  rounded  head  or  in  the 
form  of  a  pyramid,  as  the  cultivator  chooses.  It  will  thrive 


FRUIT-TREES    AND    GRASS  35 

well  on  the  same  soil  and  under  similar  treatment  accorded 
to  the  pear  or  the  apple.  Procure  from  a  nursery  straight- 
stemmed  plants;  set  them  out  about  eight  feet  apart;  begin 
to  form  the  head  three  feet  from  the  ground,  and  keep  the 
stem  and  roots  free  from  all  sprouts  and  suckers.  Develop 
the  head  just  as  you  would  that  of  an  apple-tree,  shortening 
in  the  branches,  and  cutting  out  those  that  interfere  with 
each  other.  Half  a  dozen  trees  will  soon  give  an  ample 
supply.  The  orange  and  the  pear  shaped  are  the  varieties 
usually  recommended.  Eea's  Mammoth  is  also  highly 
spoken  of.  Eemember  that  the  quince  equally  with  the 
apple  is  subject  to  injury  from  the  borer,  and  the  evil 
should  be  met  as  I  have  already  described. 

There  is  a  natural  wish  to  have  as  much  grass  about  the 
dwelling  as  possible,  for  nothing  is  more  beautiful.  If  there 
are  children,  they  will  assuredly  petition  for  lawn-tennia 
and  croquet  grounds.  I  trust  that  their  wishes  may  be 
gratified,  for  children  are  worth  infinitely  more  than  any 
thing  else  that  can  be  grown  upon  the  acre.  With  a  little 
extra  care,  all  the  trees  of  which  I  have  spoken  can  be 
grown  in  the  spaces  allotted  to  grass.  It  is  only  necessary 
to  keep  a  circle  of  space  six  feet  in  diameter — the  trunk 
forming  the  centre — around  the  tree  mellow  and  free  from 
any  vegetable  growth  whatever.  This  gives  a  chance  to 
fertilize  and  work  the  ground  immediately  over  the  roots. 
Of  course  vigorous  fruit-trees  cannot  be  grown  in  a  thick 
sod,  while  peaches  and  grapes  require  the  free  culture  of 
the  garden,  as  will  be  shown  hereafter.  In  view,  however, 
of  the  general  wish  for  grass,  I  have  advised  on  the  suppo 
sition  that  all  the  ornamental  trees,  most  of  the  shrubs,  and 
the  four  fruits  named  would  be  grown  on  the  portions  of  the 
acre  to  be  kept  in  lawn.  It  may  be  added  here  that  plums 
also  will  do  well  under  the  same  conditions,  if  given  good 
care. 

Grass  is  a  product  that  can  be  cultivated  as  truly  as  the 
most  delicate  and  fastidious  of  fruits,  and  I  had  the  lawn  in 
mind  when  I  urged  the  generous  initial  deep  plowing  and 


36  THE   HOME   ACRE 

enriching.  Nothing  that  grows  responds  more  promptly  to 
good  treatment  than  grass;  but  a  fine  lawn  cannot  be  created 
in  a  season,  any  more  than  a  fine  tree. 

We  will  suppose  that  the  spring  plantings  of  trees  have 
been  made  with  open  spaces  reserved  for  the  favorite  games. 
Now  the  ground  can  be  prepared  for  grass-seed,  for  it  need 
not  be  trampled  over  any  more.  If  certain  parts  have  be 
come  packed  and  hard,  they  should  be  dug  or  plowed 
deeply  again,  then  harrowed  and  raked  perfectly  smooth, 
and  all  stones,  big  or  little,  taken  from  the  surface.  The 
seed  may  now  be  sown,  and  it  should  be  of  thick,  fine- 
growing  varieties,  such  as  are  employed  in  Central  Park 
and  other  pleasure-grounds.  Mr.  Samuel  Parsons,  Jr., 
Superintendent  of  Central  Park,  writes  me:  "The  best 
grass-seeds  for  ordinary  lawns  are  a  mixture  of  red-top 
and  Kentucky  blue-grass  in  equal  parts,  with  perhaps  a 
small  amount  of  white  clover.  On  very  sandy  ground 
I  prefer  the  Kentucky  blue-grass,  as  it  is  very  hardy  and 
vigorous  under  adverse  circumstances. ' '  Having  sown  and 
raked  in  the  seed  very  lightly  a  great  advantage  will  be 
gained  in  passing  a  lawn-roller  over  the  ground.  I  have 
succeeded  well  in  getting  a  good  "catch"  of  grass  by  sow 
ing  the  seed  with  oats,  which  were  cut  and  cured  as  hay 
as  soon  as  the  grain  was  what  is  termed  "in  the  milk." 
The  strong  and  quickly  growing  oats  make  the  ground 
green  in  a  few  days,  and  shelter  the  slower  maturing  grass 
roots.  Mr.  Parsons  says,  "I  prefer  to  sow  the  grass-seed 
alone."  As  soon  as  the  grass  begins  to  grow  with  some 
vigor,  cut  it  often,  for  this  tends  to  thicken  it  and  produce 
the  velvety  effect  that  is  so  beautiful.  From  the  very  first 
the  lawn  will  need  weeding.  The  ground  contains  seeds  of 
strong  growing  plants,  such  as  dock,  plantain,  etc.,  which 
should  be  taken  out  as  fast  as  they  appear.  To  some  the 
dandelion  is  a  weed;  but  not  to  me,  unless  it  takes  more 
than  its  share  of  space,  for  I  always  miss  these  little  earth 
stars  when  they  are  absent.  They  intensify  the  sunshine 
shimmering  on  the  lawn,  making  one  smile  involuntarily 


FRUIT-TREES   AND   GRASS  37 

when  seeing  them.  Moreover,  they  awaken  pleasant  mem 
ories,  for  a  childhood  in  which  dandelions  had  no  part  is 
a  defective  experience. 

In  late  autumn  the  fallen  leaves  should  be  raked  care 
fully  away,  as  they  tend  to  smother  the  grass  if  permitted 
to  lie  until  spring.  Now  comes  the  chief  opportunity  of  the 
year,  in  the  form  of  a  liberal  top-dressing  of  manure  from 
the  stable.  If  this  is  spread  evenly  and  not  too  thickly  in 
November,  and  the  coarser  remains  of  it  are  raked  off  early 
in  April,  the  results  will  be  astonishing.  A  deep  emerald 
hue  will  be  imparted  to  the  grass,  and  the  frequent  cuttings 
required  will  soon  produce  a  turf  that  yields  to  the  foot  like 
a  Persian  rug.  Any  one  who  has  walked  over  the  plain 
at  West  Point  can  understand  the  value  of  these  regular 
autumnal  top-dressings.  If  the  stable-manure  can  be  com 
posted  and  left  till  thoroughly  decayed,  fine  and  friable,  all 
the  better.  If  stable- manure  can  not  be  obtained,  Mr.  Par 
sons  recommends  Mapes's  fertilizer  for  lawns. 


THE   HOME   ACRF 


CHAPTER    III 
THE  GARDEN 

WE  now  approach  that  part  of  the  acre  to  which  its 
possessor  will  probably  give  his  warmest  and 
most  frequent  thoughts — the  garden  If  properly 
made  and  conducted,  it  will  yield  a  revenue  which  the 
wealth  of  the  Indies  could  not  purchase;  for  whoever  bought 
in  market  the  flavor  of  fruit  and  vegetables  raised  by  one's 
own  hands  or  under  our  own  eyes  ?  Sentiment  does  count 
A  boy  is  a  boy ;  but  it  makes  a  vast  difference  whether  he 
is  our  boy  or  not,  A  garden  may  soon  become  a  part  of 
the  man  himself,  and  he  be  a  better  man  for  its  care. 
Wholesome  are  the  thoughts  and  schemes  it  suggests; 
healthful  are  the  blood  and  muscle  resulting  from  its 
products  and  labor  therein.  Even  with  the  purse  of  a 
millionaire,  the  best  of  the  city's  markets  is  no  substitute 
for  a  garden;  for  Nature  and  life  are  here,  and  these  are 
not  bought  and  soldo  From  stalls  and  pedlers'  wagons  we 
can  buy  but  dead  and  dying  things.  The  indolent  epicure's 
enjoyment  of  game  is  not  the  relish  of  the  sportsman  who 
has  taken  his  dinner  direct  from  the  woods  and  waters. 

I  am  often  told,  "It  is  cheaper  to  buy  fruit  and  vege 
tables  than  to  raise  them."  -  I  have  nothing  to  say  in  reply. 
There  are  many  cheap  things  that  we  can  have;  experience 
has  proved  that  one  of  the  best  things  to  have  is  a  garden, 
either  to  work  in  or  to  visit  daily  when  the  season  permits. 
We  have  but  one  life  to  live  here,  and  to  get  the  cheapest 
things  out  of  it  is  a  rather  poor  ambition. 

There  are  multitudes  who  can  never  possess  an  acre,  more 
or  less,  and  who  must  obtain  Nature's  products  at  second 
hand.  This  is  not  so  great  a  misfortune  as  to  have  no  de- 


THE    GARDEN  39 

sire  for  her  companionship,  or  wish  to  work  under  her 
direction  in  dewy  mornings  and  shadowy  evenings.  We 
may  therefore  reasonably  suppose  that  the  man  who  has 
exchanged  his  city  shelter  for  a  rural  home  looks  forward 
to  the  garden  with  the  natural,  primal  instinct,  and  is  eager 
to  make  the  most  of  it  in  all  its  aspects.  Then  let  us  plunge 
in  medias  res  at  once. 

The  ideal  soil  for  a  garden  is  a  mellow,  sandy  loam, 
underlaid  with  a  subsoil  that  is  not  too  open  or  porous. 
Such  ground  is  termed  "grateful,"  and  it  is  not  the  kind 
of  gratitude  which  has  been  defined  as  "a  lively  apprecia 
tion  of  favors  to  come,"  which  is  true  of  some  other  soils. 
This  ideal  land  remembers  past  favors;  it  retains  the  fertil 
izers  with  which  it  has  been  enriched,  and  returns  them  in 
the  form  of  good  crops  until  the  gift  is  exhausted;  therefore 
it  is  a  thrifty  as  well  as  a  grateful  soil.  The  owner  can  bring 
it  up  to  the  highest  degree  of  fertility,  and  keep  it  there  by 
judicious  management.  This  sandy  loam — Nature's  blending 
of  sand  and  clay — is  a  safe  bank.  The  manure  incorporated 
with  it  is  a  deposit  which  can  be  drawn  against  in  fruit  and 
vegetables,  for  it  does  not  leach  away  and  disappear  with 
one  season's  rains. 

Light,  thin,  sandy  soil,  with  a  porous  or  gravelly  sub 
soil,  is  of  a  very  different  type,  and  requires  different  treat 
ment.  It  is  a  spendthrift.  No  matter  how  much  you  give 
it  one  year,  it  very  soon  requires  just  so  much  more.  You 
can  enrich  it,  but  you  can't  keep  it  rich.  Therefore  you 
must  manage  it  as  one  would  take  care  of  a  spendthrift, 
giving  what  is  essential  at  the  time,  and  in  a  way  that  per 
mits  as  little  waste  as  possible.  I  shall  explain  this  treat 
ment  more  fully  further  on. 

In  the  choice  of  a  garden  plot  you  may  be  restricted  to 
a  stiff,  tenacious,  heavy  clay.  Now  you  have  a  miser  to  deal 
with — a  soil  that  retains,  but  in  many  cases  makes  no  proper 
use  of,  what  it  receives.  Skill  and  good  management,  how 
ever,  can  improve  any  soil,  and  coax  luxuriant  crops  from 
the  most  unpropitious. 


40  THE   HOME   ACRE 

We  'will  speak  first  of  the  ideal  soil  already  mentioned, 
and  hope  that  the  acre  contains  an  area  of  it  of  suitable 
dimensions  for  a  garden.  What  should  be  the  first  step  in 
this  case  ?  Why,  to  get  more  of  it.  A  quarter  of  an  acre 
can  be  made  equal  to  half  an  acre.  You  can  about  double 
the  garden,  without  adding  to  it  an  inch  of  surface,  by  in 
creasing  the  depth  of  good  soil.  For  instance,  ground  has 
been  cultivated  to  the  depth  of  six  or  seven  inches.  Try 
the  experiment  of  stirring  the  soil  and  enriching  it  one  foot 
downward,  or  eighteen  inches,  or  even  two  feet,  and  see 
what  vast  differences  will  result.  With  every  inch  you  go 
down,  making  all  friable  and  fertile,  you  add  just  so  much 
more  to  root  pasturage.  When  you  wish  to  raise  a  great 
deal,  increase  your  leverage.  Roots  are  your  levers;  and 
when  they  rest  against  a  deep  fertile  soil  they  lift  into  the 
air  and  sunshine  products  that  may  well  delight  the  eyes  and 
palate  of  the  most  fastidious.  We  suggest  that  this  thor 
ough  deepening,  pulverization,  and  enriching  of  the  soil  be 
done  at  the  start,  when  the  plow  can  be  used  without  any 
obstructions.  If  there  are  stones,  rocks,  roots,  anything 
which  prevents  the  treatment  which  a  garden  plot  should 
receive,  there  is  a  decided  advantage  in  clearing  them  all 
out  at  the  beginning.  Last  fall  I  saw  a  half-acre  that  was 
swampy,  and  so  encumbered  with  stones  that  one  could 
walk  all  over  it  without  stepping  off  the  rocks.  The  land 
was  sloping,  and  therefore  capable  of  drainage.  The  pro 
prietor  put  three  men  to  work  on  the  lower  side  with  picks, 
shovels,  and  blasting- tools.  They  turned  the  soil  over  to 
the  depth  of  eighteen  inches,  taking  out  every  stone  larger 
than  a  walnut.  Eight  or  ten  feet  apart  deep  ditches  were 
cut,  and  the  stones,  as  far  as  possible,  placed  in  these,,  The 
rest  were  carted  away  for  a  heavy  walL  You  may  say  it 
was  expensive  work.  So  it  was;  yet  so  complete  a  garden 
spot  was  made  that  I  believe  it  would  yield  a  fair  interest 
in  potatoes  alone.  I  relate  this  instance  to  show  what  can 
be  done.  A  more  forbidding  area  for  a  garden  in  its  origi 
nal  state  could  scarcely  be  found.  Enough  vegetables  and 


THE   GARDEN  41 

fruit  can  be  raised  from  it  hereafter,  with  mnual  fertilizing, 
to  supply  a  large  family;  and  it  will  improve  every  year 
under  the  refining  effects  of  frost,  sun,  and  cultivation. 

It  should  be  remembered  that  culture  does  for  soil  what 
it  does  for  men  and  women.  It  mellows,  brings  it  up,  and 
renders  it  capable  of  finer  products.  Much,  indeed,  can  be 
done  with  a  crude  piece  of  land  in  a  single  year  when  treated 
with  the  thoroughness  that  has  been  suggested,  and  some 
strong-growing  vegetables  may  be  seen  at  their  best  during 
the  first  season;  but  the  more  delicate  vegetables  thrive 
better  with  successive  years  of  cultivation.  No  matter  how 
abundantly  the  ground  may  be  enriched  at  first,  time  and 
chemical  action  are  required  to  transmute  the  fertilizers 
into  the  best  forms  of  plant-food,  and  make  them  a  part 
of  the  very  soil  itself.  Plowing  or  spading,  especially  if 
done  in  late  autumn,  exposes  the  mould  to  the  beneficial 
action  of  the  air  and  frost,  and  the  garden  gradually  takes 
on  the  refined,  mellow,  fertile  character  which  distinguishes 
it  from  the  ordinary  field. 

In  dealing  with  a  thin,  sandy  soil,  one  has  almost  to  re 
verse  the  principles  just  given.  Yet  there  is  no  cause  for 
discouragement.  Fine  results,  if  not  the  best,  can  be  se 
cured.  In  this  case  there  is  scarcely  any  possibility  for 
a  thorough  preparation  of  the  soil  from  the  start.  It  can 
gradually  be  improved,  however,  by  making  good  its  defi 
ciencies,  the  chief  of  which  is  the  lack  of  vegetable  mould. 
If  I  had  such  soil  I  would  rake  up  all  the  leaves  I  could 
find,  employ  them  as  bedding  for  my  cow  and  pigs  (if  I  kept 
any),  and  spread  the  compost- heap  resulting  on  the  sandy 
garden.  The  soil  is  already  too  light  and  warm,  and  it 
should  be  our  aim  to  apply  fertilizers  tending  to  counteract 
this  defect.  A  nervous,  excitable  person  should  let  stimu 
lants  alone,  and  take  good,  solid,  blood-making  food.  This 
illustration  suggests  the  proper  course  to  be  taken.  Many 
a  time  I  have  seen  action  the  reverse  of  this  resulting  dis 
astrously.  For  instance,  a  man  carts  on  his  light  thin  soil 
hot  fermenting  manure  from  the  horse-stable,  and  plows  it 


42  THE    HOME    ACRE 

under.  Seeds  are  planted.  In  the  moist,  cool,  early  spring 
they  make  a  great  start,  feeling  the  impulse  of  the  powerful 
stimulant.  There  is  a  hasty  and  unhealthful  growth;  but 
long  before  maturity  the  days  grow  long  and  hot,  drought 
comes,  and  the  garden  dries  up.  Therefore  every  effort 
should  be  made  to  supply  cool  manures  with  staying  qual 
ities,  such  as  are  furnished  by  decayed  vegetable  matter 
composted  with  the  cleanings  of  the  cow-stable.  We  thus 
learn  the  value  of  fallen  leaves,  muck  from  the  swamp,  etc. ; 
and  they  also  bring  with  them  but  few  seeds  of  noxious 
vegetation. 

On  the  other  hand,  stolid,  phlegmatic  clay  requires  the 
stimulus  of  manure  from  the  horse-stable.  It  can  be  plowed 
under  at  once,  and  left  to  ferment  and  decay  in  the  soil. 
The  process  of  decomposition  will  tend  to  banish  its  cold, 
inert  qualities,  and  make  the  ground  loose,  open,  and  amen 
able  to  the  influences  of  frost,  sun,  and  rain. 

Does  the  owner  of  light,  warm  soils  ask,  "What,  then, 
shall  I  do  with  my  stable-manure,  since  you  have  said  that 
it  will  be  an  injury  to  my  garden  ?' '  I  have  not  said  this — 
only  that  it  will  do  harm  if  applied  in  its  raw,  hot,  ferment 
ing  state.  Compost  it  with  leaves,  sod,  earth,  muck,  any 
thing  that  will  keep  it  from  burning  up  with  its  own  heat. 
If  you  can  obtain  no  such  ingredients,  have  it  turned  over 
and  exposed  to  the  air  so  often  that  it  will  decay  without 
passing  through  a  process  approaching  combustion.  When 
it  has  become  so  thoroughly  decomposed  as  to  resemble 
a  fine  black  powder,  you  have  a  fertilizer  superior  to  any 
high-priced  patent  compound  that  can  be  bought.  Further 
on  I  will  show  how  it  can  be  used  both  in  this  state  and  also 
in  its  crude  condition  on  light  soils  with  the  best  results. 

It  is  scarcely  possible  to  lay  too  much  stress  on  this  sub 
ject  of  fertilizers.  The  soil  of  the  garden-plot  looks  inert: 
so  does  heavy  machinery;  but  apply  to  it  the  proper  motive 
power,  and  you  have  activity  at  once.  Manure  is  the  mo 
tive  power  to  soil,  and  it  should  be  applied  in  a  way  and 
degree  to  secure  the  best  results.  To  produce  some  vege- 


THE   GARDEN  43 

tables  and  fruits  much  is  required;  in  other  growthss  very 
little. 

In  laying  out  a  garden  there  are  several  points  to  be  con 
sidered.  The  proprietor  may  be  more  desirous  of  securing 
some  degree  of  beauty  in  the  arrangement  than  of  obtaining 
the  highest  condition  of  productiveness.  If  this  be  true,  he 
may  plan  to  make  down  its  centre  a  wide,  gravelled  walk, 
with  a  grape-arbor  here  and  there,  and  fruit-trees  and  flow 
ers  in  borders  on  each  side  of  the  path.  So  far  from  hav 
ing  any  objection  to  this  arrangement,  I  should  be  inclined 
to  adopt  it  myself.  It  would  be  conducive  to  frequent  visits 
to  the  garden  and  to  lounging  in  it,  especially  if  there  be 
rustic  seats  under  the  arbors.  I  am  inclined  to  favor  any 
thing  which  accords  with  my  theory  that  the  best  products 
of  a  garden  are  neither  eaten  nor  sold.  From  such  a  walk 
down  the  middle  of  the  garden  the  proprietor  can  glance  at 
the  rows  of  vegetables  and  small  fruits  on  either  side,  and 
daily  note  their  progress.  What  he  loses  in  space  and 
crops  he  gains  in  pleasure. 

Nor  does  he  lose  much;  for  if  the  borders  on  each  side 
of  the  path  are  planted  with  grape-vines,  peach  and  plum 
trees,  flowers  and  shrubs,  the  very  ground  he  walks  on  be 
comes  part  of  their  root  pasturage.  At  the  same  time  it 
must  be  admitted  that  the  roots  will  also  extend  with  de 
pleting  appetites  into  the  land  devoted  to  vegetables.  The 
trees  and  vines  above  will,  to  some  extent,  cast  an  unwhole 
some  shade.  He  who  has  set  his  heart  on  the  biggest  cab 
bages  and  best  potatoes  in  town  must  cultivate  them  in 
ground  open  to  the  sky,  and  unpervaded  by  any  roots  ex 
cept  their  own.  If  the  general  fruitfulness  of  the  garden 
rather  than  perfection  in  a  few  vegetables  is  desired,  the 
borders,  with  their  trees,  vines,  and  flowers,  will  prove  no 
objection.  Moreover,  when  it  comes  to  competing  in  cab 
bages,  potatoes,  etc.,  the  proprietor  of  the  Home  Acre  will 
find  that  some  Irishman,  by  the  aid  of  his  redolent  pig-pen, 
will  surpass  him.  The  roots  and  shade  extending  from  hit 

17— ROE— XI 


44  THE   HOME   ACRE 

borders  will  not  prevent  him  from  growing  good  vegetables, 
if  not  the  largest. 

We  will  therefore  suppose  that,  as  the  simplest  and  most 
economical  arrangement,  he  has  adopted  the  plan  of  a  walk 
six  feet  wide  extending  through  the  centre  of  his  garden. 
As  was  the  case  with  the  other  paths,  it  will  be  greatly  to 
his  advantage  to  stake  it  out  and  remove  about  four  inches 
of  the  surface-soil,  piling  it  near  the  stable  to  be  used  for 
composting  purposes  or  in  the  earth-closet.  The  excava 
tion  thus  made  should  be  filled  with  small  stones  or  cinders, 
and  then  covered  with  fine  gravel.  A  walk  that  shall  be 
dry  at  all  times  is  thus  secured,  and  it  will  be  almost  wholly 
free  from  weeds.  In  these  advantages  alone  one  is  repaid 
for  the  extra  first  cost,  and  in  addition  the  rich  surface  soil 
obtained  will  double  the  bulk  and  value  of  the  fertilizers 
with  which  it  is  mixed. 

Having  made' the  walk,  borders  five  feet  wide  can  be  laid 
out  on  each  side  of  it,  and  the  soil  in  these  should  be  as  rich 
and  deep  as  any  other  parts  of  the  garden.  What  shall  be 
planted  in  these  borders  will  depend  largely  on  the  tastes  of 
the  gardener;  but,  as  has  been  suggested,  there  will  as 
suredly  be  one  or  more  shadowy  grape-arbors  under  which 
the  proprietor  can  retire  to  provide  horticultural  strategy. 
This  brings  us  to  that  chef-d'oeuvre  of  Nature — 

The  vine.  It  climbs  by  its  tendrils,  and  they  appear  to 
have  clasped  the  heart  of  humanity.  Among  the  best  of 
Heaven's  gifts,  it  has  sustained  the  worst  perversions.  But 
we  will  refrain  from  a  temperance  lecture;  also  from  sacred 
and  classical  reminiscences.  The  world  is  not  composed  of 
monks  who  thought  to  escape  temptation — and  vainly  too — 
in  stony  cells.  To  some  the  purple  cluster  suggests  Baccha 
nal  revelry;  to  others,  sitting  under  one's  own  vine  and  fig- 
tree — in  brief,  a  home.  The  vine  is  like  woman,  the  inspi 
ration  of  the  best  and  the  worst. 

It  may  well  become  one  of  the  dreams  of  our  life  to  own 
land,  if  for  no  other  reason  than  that  of  obtaining  the  priv 
ilege  of  planting  vines.  As  they  take  root,  so  will  we,  and 


THE   GARDEN  45 

after  we  have  eaten  their  delicious  fruit,  the  very  thought 
of  leaving  our  acre  will  be  repugnant.  The  literature  of 
the  vine  would  fill  a  library;  the  literature  of  love  would 
crowd  many  libraries.  It  is  not  essential  to  read  every 
thing  before  we  start  a  little  vineyard  or  go  a-courting. 

It  is  said  that  about  two  thousand  known  and  named 
varieties  of  grapes  have  been  and  are  being  grown  in  Eu 
rope;  and  all  these  are  supposed  to  have  been  developed 
from  one  species  (  Vitis  vinifera),  which  originally  was  the 
wild  product  of  Nature,  like  those  growing  in  our  thickets 
and  forests.  One  can  scarcely  suppose  this  possible  when 
contemplating  a  cluster  of  Tokay  or  some  other  highly  de 
veloped  variety  of  the  hot-house.  Yet  the  native  vine, 
which  began  to  "yield  fruit  after  his  kind,  the  third  day" 
(whatever  may  have  been  the  length  of  that  day),  may  have 
been,  after  all,  a  good  starting-point  in  the  process  of  devel 
opment.  One  can  hardly  believe  that  the  "one  cluster  of 
grapes"  which  the  burdened  spies,  returning  from  Pales 
tine,  bore  "between  two  of  them  upon  a  staff,"  was  the  re 
sult  of  high  scientific  culture.  In  that  clime,  and  when  the 
world  was  young,  Nature  must  have  been  more  beneficent 
than  now.  It  is  certain  that  no  such  cluster  ever  hung  from 
the  native  vines  of  this  land ;  yet  it  is  from  our  wild  species, 
whose  fruit  the  Indians  shared  with  the  birds  and  foxes 
(when  not  hanging  so  high  as  to  be  sour),  that  we  have  de 
veloped  the  delicious  varieties  of  our  out-door  vineyards. 
For  about  two  centuries  our  forefathers  kept  on  planting 
vines  imported  from  Europe,  only  to  meet  with  failure. 
Nature,  that  had  so  abundantly  rewarded  their  efforts 
abroad,  quietly  checkmated  them  here.  At  last  American 
fruit-growers  took  the  hint,  and  began  developing  our  na 
tive  species.  Then  Nature  smiled;  and  as  a  lure  along  this 
correct  path  of  progress,  gave  such  incentives  as  the  Isa 
bella,  the  Catawba,  and  Concord.  We  are  now  bewildered 
by  almost  as  great  a  choice  of  varieties  from  native  species 
as  they  have  abroad;  and  as  an  aid  to  selection  I  will  again 
give  the  verdict  of  some  of  the  authorities. 


46  THE   HOME   ACRE 

The  choice  of  the  Hon.  Norman  J.  Colman,  Commis 
sioner  of  Agriculture:  "Early  Victor,  Worden,  Martha, 
Elvira,  Cynthiana. "  This  is  for  the  region  of  Missouri. 
For  the  latitude  of  New  Jersey,  A.  S.  Fuller's  selection: 
"Delaware,  Concord,  Moore's  Early,  Antoinette  (white), 
Augusta  (white),  Goethe  (amber). "  E.  S.  Carmen : ' ' Moore's 
Early  [you  cannot  praise  this  too  much.  The  quality  is 
merely  that  of  the  Concord;  but  the  vines  are  marvels  of 
perfect  health,  the  bunches  large,  the  berries  of  the  largest 
size.  They  ripen  all  at  once,  and  are  fully  ripe  when  the 
Concord  begins  to  color],  Worden,  Brighton,  Victoria 
(white),  Niagara  (white),  El  Dorado.  [This  does  not  thrive 
everywhere,  but  the  grapes  ripen  early — September  1,  or  be 
fore — and  the  quality  is  perfection — white.]"  Choice  of  P. 
J.  Berckman,  for  the  latitude  of  Georgia:  "White  grapes — 
Peter  Wylie,  Triumph,  Maxatawny,  Scuppernong.  Bed 
graspes — Delaware,  Berckman's,  Brighton.  Black — Con 
cord,  Ives." 

As  I  have  over  a  hundred  varieties  in  bearing,  I  may 
venture  to  express  an  opinion  also.  I  confess  that  I  am 
very  fond  of  those  old  favorites  of  our  fathers,  the  Isabella 
and  Catawba.  They  will  not  ripen  everywhere  in  our  lati 
tude,  yet  I  seldom  fail  to  secure  a  good  crop.  In  the  fall  of 
1885  we  voted  the  Isabella  almost  unsurpassed.  If  one  has 
warm,  well-drained  soil,  or  can  train  a  vine  near  the  south 
side  of  a  building,  I  should  advise  the  trial  of  this  fine  old 
grape.  The  lona,  Brighton,  and  Agawam  also  are  great 
favorites  with  me.  We  regard  the  Diana,  Wyoming  Red, 
Perkins,  and  Rogers'  hybrids,  Lindley,  Wilder,  and  Ame- 
nia,  as  among  the  best.  The  Rebecca,  Duchess,  Lady  Wash 
ington,  and  Purity  are  fine  white  grapes.  I  have  not  yet 
tested  the  Niagara.  Years  ago  I  obtained  of  Mr.  James 
Ricketts,  the  prize-taker  for  seedling  grapes,  two  vines  of 
a  small  wine  grape  called  the  Bacchus.  To  my  taste  it  is 
very  pleasant  after  two  or  three  slight  frosts. 

Our  list  of  varieties  is  long  enough,  and  one  must  be 
fastidious  indeed  who  does  not  find  some  to  suit  his  taste. 


THE    GARDEN  47 

In  many  localities  the  chief  question  is,  What  kind  can 
I  grow  ?  In  our  favored  region  on  the  Hudson  almost  all 
the  out- door  grapes  will  thrive;  but  as  we  go  north  the 
seasons  become  too  cool  and  short  for  some  kinds,  and 
proceeding  south  the  summers  are  too  long  and  hot  for 
others.  The  salt  air  of  the  sea-coast  is  not  conducive  to- 
vine-culture,  and  only  the  most  vigorous,  like  the  Concord 
and  Moore's  Early,  will  resist  the  mildew  blight.  We  must 
therefore  do  the  best  we  can,  and  that  will  be  very  well 
indeed  in  most  localities. 

Because  oar  list  of  good  grapes  is  already  so  long,  it  does 
not  follow  that  we  have  reached  the  limit  of  development  by 
any  means.  When  we  remember  that  almost  within  a  life 
time  our  fine  varieties  have  been  developed  from  the  wild 
northern  Fox  grape  ( Vitis  labrusca),  the  Summer  grape 
(cestivalis),  Frost  (cordifolia),  we  are  led  to  think  that  per 
haps  we  have  scarcely  more  than  crossed  the  stile  which 
leads  into  the  path  of  progress.  If  I  should  live  to  keep  up 
my  little  specimen  vineyard  ten  years  longer,  perhaps  the 
greater  part  of  the  varieties  now  cultivated  will  have  given 
place  to  others.  The  delicious  Brighton  requires  no  more 
space  than  a  sour,  defective  variety,  while  the  proprietor 
starts  with  the  best  kinds  he  can  obtain,  he  will  find  no 
restraint  beyond  his  own  ignorance  or  carelessness  that  will 
prevent  his  replacing  the  Brighton  with  a  variety  twice  a,s 
good  when  it  is  developed.  Thus  vine-planting  and  grape- 
tasting  stretch  away  into  an  alluring  and  endless  vista. 

When  such  exchanges  are  made,  we  do  not  recommend 
the  grafting  of  a  new  favorite  on  an  old  vine.  This  is  a 
pretty  operation  when  one  has  the  taste  and  leisure  for  it, 
and  a  new,  high-priced  variety  can  sometimes  be  obtained 
speedily  and  cheaply  in  this  way.  Usually,  however,  new 
kinds  soon  drop  down  within  the  means  of  almost  any  pur 
chaser,  and  there  are  advantages  in  having  each  variety 
growing  upon  its  own  root.  Nature  yields  to  the  skill  of 
the  careful  gardener,  and  permits  the  insertion  of  one  dis 
tinct  variety  of  fruit  upon  another;  but  with  the  vine  she 


48  THE   HOME    ACRE 

does  not  favor  this  method  of  propagation  and  change,  as 
in  the  case  of  pears  and  apples,  where  the  graft  forms  a 
close,  tenacious  union  with  the  stock  in  which  it  is  placed. 
Mr.  Fuller  writes:  "On  account  of  the  peculiar  structure  of 
the  wood  of  the  vine,  a  lasting  union  is  seldom  obtained 
when  grafted  above-ground,  and  is  far  from  being  certain 
even  when  grafted  below  the  surface,  by  the  ordinary 
method."  The  vine  is  increased  so  readily  by  easy  and 
natural  methods,  to  be  explained  hereafter,  that  he  who 
desires  nothing  more  than  to  secure  a  good  supply  of  grapes 
for  the  table  can  dismiss  the  subject.  On  the  other  hand, 
those  who  wish  to  amuse  themselves  by  experimenting  with 
Nature  can  find  abundant  enjoyment  in  not  only  grafting 
old  vines,  but  also  in  raising  new  seedlings,  among  which 
he  may  obtain  a  prize  which  will  "astonish  the  natives." 
Those,  however,  whose  tastes  carry  them  to  such  lengths  in 
vine-culture  will  be  sure  to  purchase  exhaustive  treatises 
on  the  subject,  and  will  therefore  give  no  heed  to  these 
simple  practical  chapters.  It  is  my  aim  to  enable  the  busi 
ness  man  returning  from  his  city  office,  or  the  farmer  en 
grossed  with  the  care  of  many  acres,  to  learn  in  a  few 
moments,  from  time  to  time,  just  what  he  must  do  to  sup 
ply  his  family  abundantly  with  fruits  and  vegetables. 

If  one  is  about  to  adopt  a  grape-culture  as  a  calling, 
common-sense  requires  that  he  should  locate  in  some  region 
peculiarly  adapted  to  the  vine.  If  the  possessor  of  a  large 
farm  purposes  to  put  several  acres  in  vineyard,  he  should 
also  aim  to  select  a  soil  and  exposure  best  suited  to  his  pur 
pose.  Two  thousand  years  ago  Vergil  wrote,  "Nor  let  thy 
vineyard  bend  toward  the  sun  when  setting."  The  infer 
ence  is  that  the  vines  should  face  the  east,  if  possible;  and 
from  that  day  to  this,  eastern  and  southern  exposures  have 
been  found  the  best.  Yet  climate  modifies  even  this  prin 
ciple.  In  the  South,  I  should  plant  my  vineyard  on  a  north 
western  slope,  or  on  the  north  side  of  a  belt  of  woods,  for 
the  reason  that  the  long,  hot  days  there  would  cause  too 
rapid  an  evaporation  from  the  foliage  of  the  vines,  and  en- 


THE   GARDEN  49 

feeble,  if  not  kill  them.  In  the  limited  space  of  the  Home 
Acre  one  can  use  only  such  land  as  he  has,  and  plant  where 
he  must;  but  if  the  favorable  exposures  indicated  exist,  it 
would  be  well  to  make  the  most  of  them.  1  can  mention, 
however,  as  encouragement  to  many,  that  I  saw,  last  fall, 
splendid  grapes  growing  on  perfectly  level  and  sandy  soil 
in  New  Jersey. 

A  low- lying,  heavy,  tenacious  clay  is  undoubtedly  the 
worst  ground  in  which  to  plant  a  vine;  and  yet  by  thorough 
drainage,  a  liberal  admixture  of  sand,  and  light  fertilizers, 
it  can  be  made  to  produce  good  grapes  of  some  varieties. 
A  light  sandy  soil,  if  enriched  abundantly  with  well- decayed 
vegetable  and  barnyard  manures,  gives  wider  scope  in  choice 
of  kinds;  while  on  the  ideal  well-drained  sandy  loam  that 
we  have  described,  any  outdoor  grape  can  be  planted  hope 
fully  if  the  garden  is  sufficiently  removed  from  the  seaboard. 

As  a  general  truth  it  may  be  stated  that  any  land  in 
a  condition  to  produce  a  fine  crop  of  corn  and  potatoes  is 
ready  for  the  vine.  This  would  be  true  of  the  entire  garden 
if  the  suggestions  heretofore  made  have  been  carried  out. 
Therefore  the  borders  which  have  been  named  are  ready  to 
receive  the  vines,  which  may  be  planted  in  either  spring 
or  fall.  1  prefer  the  fall  season  for  several  reasons.  The 
ground  is  usually  drier  then,  and  crumbles  more  finely; 
the  young  vine  becomes  well  established  and  settled  in  its 
place  by  spring,  and  even  forms  new  roots  before  the  grow 
ing  season  begins,  and  in  eight  cases  out  of  ten  makes  a 
stronger  growth  than  follows  spring  planting;  it  is  work 
accomplished  when  there  is  usually  the  greatest  leisure. 
If  the  ground  is  ready  in  early  spring,  I  should  advise  no 
delay.  A  year's  growth  is  gained  by  setting  out  the  vines 
at  once.  As  a  rule  I  do  not  advise  late  spring  planting — 
that  is,  after  the  buds  have  started  on  the  young  vines. 
They  may  live,  but  usually  they  scarcely  do  more,  the  first 
year. 

In  ordering  from  a  nursery  I  should  ask  for  vigorous, 
well-rooted  two-year-old  vines,  and  I  should  be  almost  as 


50  THE   HOME   ACRE 

well  contented  with  first-class  one-year-olds.  If  any  one 
should  advertise  "extra  large,  strong  vines,  ready  to  bear 
at  once,"  I  should  have  nothing  to  do  with  him.  That's 
a  nursery  trick  to  get  rid  of  old  stock.  The  first  year  after 
the  shock  of  removal  a  vine  should  not  be  permitted  to 
bear  at  all;  and  a  young  vigorous  vine  is  worth  a  dozen  old 
stunted  ones. 

Having  procured  the  vines,  keep  them  in  a  cool,  moist 
place  until  ready  to  plant.  Never  permit  the  roots  to  be 
come  dry;  and  if  some  of  them  are  long  and  naked,  shorten 
them  to  two  feet,  so  as  to  cause  them  to  throw  out  side 
fibrous  roots,  which  are  the  true  feeders.  Excavate  holes  of 
ample  size,  so  that  all  the  roots  may  be  spread  out  naturally. 
If  you  have  reason  to  think  the  ground  is  not  very  good, 
two  or  three  quarts  of  fine  bone-dust  thoroughly  mixed 
with  the  soil  that  is  placed  on  and  about  the  roots  will  give 
a  fine  send-ofi.  Usually  a  good  mulch  of  any  kind  of  barn 
yard  manure  placed  on  the  surface  after  planting  will  answer 
all  purposes.  Before  filling  in  the  hole  over  the  roots,  place 
beside  the  vine  a  stout  stake  six  or  seven  feet  high.  This 
will  be  all  the  support  required  the  first  year.  Cut  back  the 
young  vine  to  three  buds,  and  after  they  get  well  started, 
let  but  one  grow.  If  the  planting  is  done  in  the  fall,  mound 
the  earth  up  over  the  little  vine  at  the  approach  of  winter, 
so  as  to  cover  it  at  least  six  inches  below  the  surface.  In 
spring  uncover  again  as  soon  as  hard  frosts  are  over — say 
early  April  in  our  latitude.  Slow-growing  varieties,  like 
the  Delaware,  may  be  set  out  six  feet  apart;  strong  growers, 
like  the  Concord,  eight  feet.  Vines  can  not  be  expected  to 
thrive  under  the  shade  of  trees,  or  to  fight  an  unequal  battle 
in  ground  filled  with  the  roots  of  other  plants. 

Vines  may  be  set  out  not  only  in  the  garden  borders,  but 
also  in  almost  any  place  where  their  roots  will  not  be  inter 
fered  with,4and  where  their  foliage  will  receive  plenty  of 
light  and  air.  How  well  I  remember  the  old  Isabella  vines 
that  clambered  on  a  trellis  over  the  kitchen  door  at  my 
childhood's  home!  In  this  sunny  exposure,  and  in  the  re- 


THE    GARDEN  51 

fleeted  heat  of  the  building,  the  clusters  were  always  the 
sweetest  and  earliest  ripe.  A  ton  of  grapes  may  be  secured 
annually  by  erecting  trellises  against  the  sides  of  buildings, 
walls,  and  poultry  yard,  while  at  the  same  time  the  screen 
ing  vines  furnish  grateful  shade  and  no  small  degree  of 
beauty.  With  a  little  petting,  such  scattered  vines  are  often 
enormously  productive.  An  occasional  pail  of  soapsuds 
gives  them  a  drink  which  eventually  flushes  the  thickly 
hanging  clusters  with  exquisite  color.  People  should  dis 
miss  from  their  minds  the  usual  method  of  European  culti 
vation,  wherein  the  vines  are  tied  to  short  stakes,  and  made 
to  produce  their  fruit  near  the  ground.  This  method  can 
be  employed  if  we  find  pleasure  in  the  experiment  At 
Mr.  Fuller's  place  I  saw  fine  examples  of  it.  Stubby  vines 
with  stems  thick  as  one's  wrist  rose  about  three  feet  from 
the  ground,  then  branched  off  on  every  side,  like  an  um 
brella,  with  loads  of  fruit.  Only  one  supporting  stake  was 
required.  This  method  evidently  is  not  adapted  to  our 
climate  and  species  of  grape,  since  in  that  case  plenty  of 
keen,  practical  fruit-growers  would  have  adopted  it.  I  am 
glad  this  is  true,  for  the  vine-clad  hills  of  France  do  not 
present  half  so  pleasing  a  spectacle  as  an  American  corn 
field.  The  vine  is  beautiful  when  grown  as  a  vine,  and  not 
as  a  stub;  and  well- trained,  well-fed  vines  on  the  Home 
Acre  can  be  developed  to  almost  any  length  required, 
shading  and  hiding  with  greenery  every  unsightly  object, 
and  hanging  their  finest  clusters  far  beyond  the  reach  of 
the  predatory  small  boy. 

We  may  now  consider  the  vines  planted  and  growing 
vigorously,  as  they  will  in  most  instances  if  they  have  been 
prepared  for  and  planted  according  to  the  suggestions  al 
ready  given.  Now  begins  the  process  of  guiding  and  assist 
ing  Nature.  Left  to  herself,  she  will  give  a  superabundance 
of  vine,  with  sufficient  fruit  for  purposes  of  propagation  and 
feeding  the  birds.  Our  object  is  to  obtain  the  maximum 
of  fruit  from  a  minimum  of  vine.  The  little  plant,  even 
though  grown  from  a  single  bud,  will  sprawl  all  over  every- 


62  THE   HOME   ACRE 

thing  near  it  in  three  or  four  years,  if  unchecked.  Pruning 
may  begin  even  before  midsummer  of  the  first  year.  The 
single  green  shoot  will  by  this  time  begin  to  produce  what 
are  termed  "laterals."  The  careful  cultivator  who  wishes 
to  throw  all  the  strength  and  growth  into  the  main  shoot 
will  pinch  these  laterals  back  as  soon  as  they  form  one  leaf. 
Each  lateral  will  start  again  from  the  axil  of  the  leaf  that 
has  been  left,  and  having  formed  another  leaf,  should  again 
be  cut  off.  By  repeating  this  process  during  the  growing 
season  you  have  a  strong  single  cane  by  fall,  reaching 
probably  beyond  the  top  of  the  supporting  stake.  In  our 
latitude  I  advise  that  this  single  cane — that  is,  the  vine — 
be  cut  back  to  within  fifteen  inches  of  the  surface  when 
the  leaves  have  fallen  and  the  wood  has  well-ripened — say 
about  the  middle  of  November — and  that  the  part  left  be 
bent  over  and  covered  with  earth.  When  I  say  "bent  over," 
I  do  not  mean  at  right  angles,  so  as  to  admit  of  the  possi 
bility  of  its  being  broken,  but  gently  and  judiciously.  I 
cover  with  earth  all  my  vines,  except  the  Concords  and 
Isabellas,  just  before  hard  freezing  weather;  and  even  these 
two  hardy  kinds  I  weight  down  close  to  the  ground.  I  have 
never  failed  to  secure  a  crop  from  vines  so  treated.  Two 
men  will  protect  over  a  hundred  vines  in  a  day. 

In  early  April  the  young  vine  is  uncovered  again;  and 
now  the  two  uppermost  buds  are  allowed  to  grow  and  form 
two  strong  canes,  instead  of  one,  and  on  this  new  growth 
four  or  five  clusters  of  grapes  may  be  permitted  to  mature 
if  the  vine  is  vigorous.  If  it  is  feeble,  take  off  all  the  fruit, 
And  stimulate  the  vine  into  greater  vigor.  Our  aim  is  not 
to  obtain  half  a  dozen  inferior  clusters  as  soon  as  possible, 
but  to  produce  a  vine  that  will  eventually  almost  supply 
a  family  by  itself.  If  several  varieties  have  been  planted, 
some  will  be  found  going  ahead  rampantly;  others  will  ex 
hibit  a  feebler  growth,  which  can  be  hastened  and  greatly 
increased  by  enriching  the  surface  of  the  soil  around  them^ 
and  by  a  pail  of  soap-suds  now  and  then  in  May  or  June — 
but  not  later,  unless  there  should  be  a  severe  drought 


THE    GARDEN  53 

There  should  be  no  effort  to  produce  much  growth  during 
the  latter  part  of  the  summer  and  early  autumn,  for  then 
both  the  wood  and  roots  will  be  immature  and  unripened 
when  frost  begins,  and  thus  the  vine  receive  injury.  For 
this  reason  it  is  usually  best  to  apply  fertilizers  to  vines 
in  the  fall;  for  if  given  in  the  spring,  a  late,  unhealthful 
growth  is  often  produced.  Throughout  all  subsequent  years 
manure  must  be  applied  judiciously.  You  may  tell  the 
hired  man  to  top-dress  the  ground  about  the  vines,  and 
he  will  probably  treat  all  alike;  a  vine  that  is  already 
growing  so  strongly  that  it  can  scarcely  be  kept  within 
bounds  will  receive  as  much  as  one  that  is  slow  and  feeble 
in  its  development.  This  is  worse  than  waste.  Eaclj  vine 
should  be  treated  in  accordance  with  its  condition  and  habit 
of  growth.  What  would  be  thought  of  a  physician  who 
ordered  a  tonic  for  an  entire  family,  giving  as  much  to  one 
who  might  need  depleting,  as  to  another  who,  as  country 
people  say,  was  "puny  and  ailin1  ?"  With  even  an  assort 
ment  of  half  a  dozen  varieties  we  shall  find  after  the  first 
good  start  that  some  need  a  curb,  and  others  a  spur. 

Stakes  will  answer  as  supports  to  the  vines  during  the 
first  and  second  seasons;  but  thereafter  trellises  or  arbors 
are  needed.  The  latter  will  probably  be  employed  over  the 
central  walk  of  the  garden,  and  may  be  constructed  after 
several  simple  and  pretty  designs,  which  I  leave  to  the  taste 
of  the  reader.  If  vines  are  planted  about  buildings,  fences, 
etc.,  trellises  may  be  made  of  anything  preferred — of  gal 
vanized  wire,  slats,  or  rustic  poles  fastened  to  strong,  dur 
able  supports.  If  vines  are  to  be  trained  scientifically  in 
the  open  garden,  I  should  recommend  the  trellises  figured 
on  pages  120  and  142  of  Mr.  Fuller's  work,  "The  Grape 
Cultunst. "  These,  beyond  anything  I  have  seen,  appear 
the  best  adapted  for  the  following  out  of  a  careful  system 
of  pruning  and  training.  Such  a  system  Mr.  Fuller  nas 
thoroughly  and  lucidly  explained  in  the  above-named  book. 

Unless  the  reader  has  had  experience,  or  is  willing  to 
give  time  for  the  mastery  of  this  subject,  I  should  advise 


54  THE   HOME   ACRE 

that  he  miploy  an  experienced  gardener  to  prune  his  vines 
after  the  second  year.  It  is  a  brief  task,  but  a  great  deal 
depends  upon  it.  In  selecting  a  man  for  the  work  I  should 
require  something  more  than  exaggerated  and  personal 
assurances.  In  every  village  there  are  terrible  butchers 
of  vines  and  fruit-trees,  who  have  some  crude  system  of 
their  own.  They  are  as  ignorant  of  the  true  science  of  the 
subject  as  a  quack  doctor  of  medicine,  and,  like  the  dis 
penser  of  nostrums,  they  claim  to  be  infallible.  Skilful 
pruning  and  training  is  really  a  fine  art,  which  cannot  be 
learned  in  a  day  or  a  year.  It  is  like  a  surgical  operation, 
requiring  but  little  time,  yet  representing  much  acquired 
skill  vand  experience.  In  almost  every  locality  there  are 
trustworthy,  intelligent  gardeners,  who  will  do  this  work 
for  a  small  sum  until  the  proprietor  has  learned  the  art 
himself,  if  so  inclined.  I  should  also  employ  the  same  man 
in  spring  to  tie  up  the  vines  and  train  them. 

If  one  is  not  ambitious  to  secure  the  best  results  attain 
able,  he  can  soon  learn  to  perform  both  the  tasks  well 
enough  to  obtain  fairly  good  fruit  in  abundance.  It  should 
be  our  constant  aim  not  to  permit  long,  naked  reaches  of 
wood,  in  one  part  of  the  vine,  and  great  smothering  bunches 
of  fruit  and  foliage  in  another  part.  Of  course  the  roots, 
stem,  and  leading  arms  should  be  kept  free  from  useless 
shoots  and  sprouts;  but  having  reached  the  trellis,  the  vine 
should  be  made  to  distribute  bearing  fruit-spurs  evenly 
over  it.  Much  can  be  learned  about  pruning  from  books 
and  by  watching  an  expert  gardener  while  giving  the  annual 
pruning;  but  the  true  science  of  trimming  a  vine  is  best  ac 
quired  by  watching  buds  develop,  by  noting  what  they  will 
do,  where  they  go,  and  how  much  space  they  will  take  up 
in  a  single  summer.  In  this  way  one  will  eventually  realize 
now  much  is  wrapped  up  in  the  insignificant  little  buds, 
and  how  great  the  folly  of  leaving  too  many  on  the  vine. 

In  my  next  chapter  I  shall  treat  briefly  of  the  propaga 
tion  of  the  grape,  its  insect  enemies,  diseases,  etc. ;  and  also 
of  some  other  fruits. 


THE    VINEYARD   AND   ORCHARD  55 


CHAPTEE  IV 

THE  VINEYARD  AND  ORCHARD 

HE  who  proposes  to  plant  grape-vines  will  scarcely  fail 
to  take  the  sensible  course  of  inspecting  the  varie 
ties  already  producing  fruit  in  his  locality.  From 
causes  often  too  obscure  to  be  learned  with  certainty,  ex 
cellent  kinds  will  prove  to  be  well  adapted  to  one  locality, 
and  fail  in  others.  If,  therefore,  when  calling  on  a  neigh 
bor  during  August,  September,  or  October,  we  are  shown 
a  vine  producing  fruit  abundantly  that  is  suited  to  our 
taste,  a  vine  also  which  manifests  unmistakable  vigor,  we 
may  be  reasonably  sure  that  it  belongs  to  a  variety  which 
we  should  have,  especially  if  it  be  growing  in  a  soil  and  ex 
posure  somewhat  similar  to  our  garden  plot.  A  neighbor 
worthy  of  the  name  will  be  glad  to  give  us  a  few  cuttings 
from  his  vine  at  the  time  of  its  annual  pruning;  and  with 
very  little  trouble  we  also  may  soon  possess  the  desired 
variety.  When  the  vine  is  trimmed,  either  make  yourself 
or  have  your  friend  make  a  few  cuttings  of  sound  wood 
from  that  season's  growth.  About  eight  inches  is  a  good 
length  for  these  vine-slips,  and  they  should  contain  at  least 
two  buds.  Let  each  slip  be  cut  off  smoothly  just  under  tCid 
lowest  bud,  and  extend  an  inch  or  two  above  the  upper 
most  bud.  If  these  cuttings  are  obtained  in  November  or 
December,  they  may  be  put  into  a  little  box  with  some 
of  the  moist  soil  of  the  garden,  and  buried  in  the  ground 
below  the  usual  frost- line — say  a  foot  or  eighteen  inches  in 
our  latitude.  The  simple  object  is  to  keep  them  in  a  cool, 
even  temperature,  but  not  a  frosty  one.  Early  in  April  dig 


56  THE   HOME   ACRE 

up  the  box,  open  a  trench  in  a  moist  but  not  wet  part  of 
the  garden,  and  insert  the  cuttings  perpendicularly  in  the 
soil,  so  that  the  upper  bud  is  covered  barely  one  inch.  In 
filling  up  the  trench,  press  the  soil  carefully  yet  firmly 
about  the  cuttings,  and  spread  over  the  surface  just  about 
them  a  little  fine  manure.  The  cuttings  should  be  a  foot 
apart  from  each  other  in  the  row.  Do  not  let  the  ground 
become  dry  about  them  at  any  time  during  the  summer. 
By  fall  these  cuttings  will  probably  have  thrown  out  an 
abundance  of  roots,  and  have  made  from  two  to  three  feet 
of  vine.  In  this  case  they  can  be  taken  up  and  set  out 
where  they  are  to  fruit.  Possibly  but  one  or  two  of  them 
have  started  vigorously.  The  backward  ones  had  better  be 
left  to  grow  another  year  in  the  cutting  bed.  Probably 
we  shall  not  wish  to  cultivate  more  than  one  or  two  vines 
of  the  variety;  but  it  is  just  as  easy  to  start  several  cuttings 
as  one,  and  by  this  course  we  guard  against  failure,  and  are 
able  to  select  the  most  vigorous  plant  for  our  garden.  By 
taking  good  care  of  the  others  we  soon  derive  one  of  the 
best  pleasures  which  our  acre  can  afford — that  of  giving 
to  a  friend  something  which  will  enhance  the  productive 
ness  of  his  acre,  and  add  to  his  enjoyment  for  years 
to  come. 

Not  only  on  our  neighbor's  grounds,  but  also  on  our 
own  we  shall  discover  that  some  varieties  are  unusually 
vigorous,  productive,  and  well-adapted  to  our  locality; 
and  we  may  very  naturally  wish  to  have  more  vines  of 
the  same  sort,  especially  if  the  fruit  is  to  our  taste.  We 
can  either  increase  this  kind  by  cuttings,  as  has  been 
described,  or  we  can  layer  part  of  the  vine  that  has  won 
our  approval  by  well-doing.  I  shall  take  the  latter  course 
with  several  delicious  varieties  in  my  vineyard.  Some 
kinds  of  grapes  do  not  root  readily  as  cuttings,  but  there 
is  little  chance  of  failure  in  layering.  This  process  is  sim 
ply  the  laying  down  of  a  branch  of  a  vine  in  early  spring, 
and  covering  it  lightly  with  soil,  so  that  some  buds  will  be 
beneath  the  surface,  and  others  just  at  or  a  little  above 


THE    VINEYARD    AND    ORCHARD  57 

it.  Those  beneath  will  form  roots,  the  others  shoots  which 
by  fall  should  be  good  vines  for  planting.  Every  bud  that 
can  reach  the  air  and  light  will  start  upward,  and  thus  there 
may  be  a  thick  growth  of  incipient  vines  that  will  crowd 
and  enfeeble  each  other.  The  probabilities  are  that  only 
two  or  three  new  vines  are  wanted ;  therefore  all  the  others 
should  be  rubbed  off  at  the  start,  so  that  the  strength  of 
the  parent  plant  and  of  the  new  roots  that  are  forming  may 
go  into  those  few  shoots  designed  to  become  eventually 
a  part  of  our  vineyard.  If  we  wish  only  one  vine,  then 
but  one  bud  should  grow  from  the  layer;  if  two  vines,  then 
two  buds.  The  fewer  buds  that  are  permitted  to  grow,  the 
stronger  vines  they  make. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  this  layer,  for  the  greater 
part  of  the  growing  season,  is  drawing  its  sustenance  from 
the  parent  plant,  to  which  it  is  still  attached.  Therefore 
the  other  branches  of  this  vine  thus  called  upon  for  unusual 
effort  should  be  permitted  to  fruit  but  sparingly.  We  should 
not  injure  and  enfeeble  the  original  vine  in  order  to  get 
others  like  it.  For  this  reason  we  advise  that  no  more  buds 
be  permitted  to  grow  from  the  layer  than  we  actually  need 
ourselves.  To  injure  a  good  vine  and  deprive  ourselves 
of  fruit  that  we  may  have  plants  to  give  away,  is  to  love 
one's  neighbor  better  than  one's  self — a  thing  permitted, 
but  not  required.  When  our  vines  are  pruned,  we  can 
make  as  many  cuttings  as  we  choose,  either  to  sell  or  give 
away. 

The  ground  in  which  a  layer  is  placed  should  be  very 
rich,  and  its  surface  round  the  young  growing  vines  always 
kept  moist  and  free  from  weeds.  In  the  autumn,  after  the 
leaves  have  fallen  and  the  wood  is  ripe  and  hard,  cut  off 
the  layered  branch  close  to  the  vine,  and  with  a  garden- 
fork  gently  and  carefully  lift  it,  with  all  its  roots  and  young 
vines  attached,  out  of  the  soil.  First  cut  the  young  vines 
back  to  three  or  four  buds,  then  separate  them  from  the 
branch  from  which  they  grew,  being  sure  to  give  each 
plant  plenty  of  roots,  and  the  roots  back  of  the  point  from 


58  THE   HOME   ACRE 

which  it  grew;  that  is,  those  roots  nearest  the  parent  plant 
from  which  the  branch  was  layered.  All  the  old  wood  of 
the  branch  that  is  naked,  free  of  roots,  should  be  cut  off. 
The  young  shoots  thus  separated  are  now  independent 
vines,  and  may  be  set  out  at  once  where  they  are  to  fruit. 
If  you  have  a  variety  that  does  not  do  well,  or  that  you  do 
not  like,  dig  it  out,  enrich  the  soil,  and  put  one  of  your 
favorites  in  its  place. 

We  will  now  consider  briefly  the  diseases  and  insect 
enemies  of  the  grape.  A  vine  way  be  doomed  to  ill- health 
from  its  very  situation.  Mr.  Hussman,  a  grape-culturist  of 
great  experience  and  wide  observation,  writes:  "Those 
localities  may  generally  be  considered  safe  for  the  grape 
in  which  there  are  no  miasmatic  influences.  Where  malaria 
and  fevers  prevail,  there  is  no  safety  for  the  crop,  as  the 
vine  seems  to  be  as  susceptible  to  such  influences  as  human 
beings. ' ' 

Taking  this  statement  literally,  we  may  well  ask,  Where, 
then,  can  grapes  be  grown?  According  to  physicians,  ma 
laria  has  become  one  of  the  most  generally  diffused  prod 
ucts  of  the  country.  When  a  man  asserts  that  it  is  not  in 
his  locality,  we  feel  sure  that  if  pressed  he  will  admit  that 
it  is  "round  the  corner."  Country  populations  still  sur 
vive,  however,  and  so  does  grape-culture.  Yet  there  are 
low- lying  regions  which  from  defective  drainage  are  dis 
tinctively  and,  it  would  almost  seem,  hopelessly  malarial. 
In  such  localities  but  few  varieties  of  the  vine  will  thrive. 
The  people  who  are  compelled  to  live  there,  or  who  choose 
to  do  so,  should  experiment  until  they  obtain  varieties  so 
hardy  and  vigorous  that  they  will  triumph  over  everything. 
The  best  course  with  grape- diseases  is  not  to  have  them;  in 
other  words,  to  recognize  the  fact  at  once  that  certain  varie 
ties  of  the  grape  will  not  thrive  and  be  productive  of  good 
fruit  unless  the  soil  and  climate  suit  them.  The  proprietor 
of  the  Home  Acre  can  usually  learn  by  a  little  inquiry  or 
observation  whether  grapes  thrive  in  his  locality.  If  there 
is  much  complaint  of  mildew,  grape-rot,  and  general  feeble- 


THE    VINEYARD    AND    ORCHARD  59 

ness  of  growth,  he  should  seek  to  plant  only  the  most  hardy 
and  vigorous  kinds! 

As  I  have  said  before,  our  cultivated  grapes  are  derived 
from  several  native  species  found  growing  wild,  and  some 
now  valued  highly  for  wine-making  are  nothing  but  wild 
grapes  domesticated;  as,  for  instance,  Norton's  Virginia, 
belonging  to  the  o&stivalis  class.  The  original  plant  of  this 
variety  was  found  growing  upon  an  island  in  the  Potomac 
by  Dr.  Norton,  of  Virginia. 

The  species  from  which  the  greatest  number  of  well- 
known  grapes  is  obtained  is  the  Vitis  labrusca,  the  common 
wild  or  fox  grape,  found  growing  in  woods  and  thickets, 
usually  where  the  ground  is  moist,  from  Canada  to  the  Gulf. 
The  dark  purple  berries,  averaging  about  three-quarters  of 
an  inch  in  diameter,  ripen  in  September,  and  the  y  contain 
a  tough,  musky  pulp.  Yet  this  "slip  of  wilderness"  is  the 
parent  of  the  refined  Catawba,  the  delicious  Brighton,  and 
the  magnificent  white  grape  Lady  Washington — indeed,  of 
all  the  black,  red,  and  white  grapes  with  which  most  people 
are  familiar.  Our  earliest  gn  pes,  which  ripen  in  August,  as 
well  as  some  of  the  latest,  like  the  Isabella,  come  from  the 
labrusca  species.  It  is  said  that  the  labrusca  class  will  not 
thrive  in  the  extreme  South;  and  with  the  exception  of  the 
high  mountain  slopes,  this  appears  reasonable  to  the  student 
of  the  vine.  It  is  said  that  but  few  of  this  class  will  endure 
the  long  hot  summers  of  France.  But  there  are  great  dif 
ferences  among  the  varieties  derived  from  this  native  species. 
For  example,  the  Concord  thrives  almost  anywhere,  while 
even  here  upon  the  Hudson  we  can  scarcely  grow  the  Ca 
tawba  with  certainty,  It  is  so  good  a  grape,  however,  that 
I  persist  in  making  the  effort,  with  varying  success;  but  I 
should  not  recommend  it,  or  many  of  its  class,  for  those 
localities  not  specially  suited  to  the  grape. 

I  will  now  name  a  few  varieties  which  have  proved  to 
be,  or  promise  to  be,  the  most  thrifty  and  productive  where- 
ever  grapes  can  be  grown  at  all.  The  labrusca  class:  Black 
— Concord,  Wilder,  Worden,  Amenia,  Early  Canada,  Tele- 


60  THE   HOME    ACRE 

graph  or  Christine,  Moore's  Early.  Hed — Wyoming,  Goethe, 
Lindley,  Beauty,  Brighton,  Perkins  (pale  red),  and  Agawam. 
White— Rebecca,  Martha,  Allen's  Hybrid,  Lady  Pockling- 
ton,  Prentiss,  Lady  Washington.  These  are  all  fine  grapes, 
and  they  have  succeeded  throughout  wide  areas  of  country. 
Any  and  all  are  well  worth  a  trial;  but  if  the  grower  finds 
that  some  of  them  are  weak  and  diseased  in  his  grounds,  I 
should  advise  that  he  root  them  out  and  replace  them  with 
those  which  thrive.  The  Niagara  is  highly  praised,  and 
may  make  good  all  that  is  claimed  for  it. 

Of  the  cestivalis  class  I  can  recommend  the  Cynthiana  and 
the  Herbemont,  or  Warren,  for  the  extreme  South.  Both 
of  them  are  black.  There  are  new  varieties  of  this  vigorous 
species  which  promise  well. 

The  cordifolia  species  promises  to  furnish  some  fine, 
hardy,  and  productive  grapes,  of  which  the  Amber  is  an 
example.  The  Elvira,  a  pale  yellow  grape,  is  highly  praised 
by  Mr.  Hussman.  Although  the  Bacchus  is  distinctively  a 
wine  grape,  I  have  already  said  that  its  flavor,  when  fully 
ripe,  was  agreeable  to  me.  The  only  difficulty  in  growing 
it  is  to  .keep  the  ground  poor,  and  use  the  pruning- knife 
freely. 

I  have  enlarged  on  this  point,  for  I  wish  to  direct  the 
mind  of  the  reader  to  the  fact  that  there  are  many  very 
hardy  grapes.  I  congratulate  those  who,  with  the  taste  of 
a  connoisseur,  have  merely  to  sample  until  they  find  just 
the  varieties  that  suit  them,  and  then  to  plant  these  kinds 
in  their  genial  soil  and  favored  locality. 

At  the  same  time  I  should  like  to  prevent  others  from 
worrying  along  with  unsatisfactory  varieties,  or  from  reach 
ing  the  conclusion  that  they  can  not  grow  grapes  in  their 
region  or  garden.  Let  them  rather  admit  that  they  can  not 
raise  some  kinds,  but  may  others.  If  a  variety  were  persist 
ently  diseased,  feeble,  and  unproductive  under  good  treat 
ment,  I  should  root  it  out  rather  than  continue  to  nurse  and 
coddle  it 

When  mildew  and  grape-rot  first  appear,  the  evil  can 


THE    VINEYARD   AND    ORCHARD  61 

often  be  remedied  in  part  by  dusting  the  vines  with  sulphur, 
and  continuing  the  process  until  the  disease  is  cured,  if  it 
ever  is.  I  have  never  had  occasion  to  do  this,  and  will  not 
do  it.  A  variety  that  often  requires  such  nursing  in  this 
favored  locality  should  be  discarded. 

There  is  one  kind  of  disease,  or  feebleness  rather,  to 
which  we  are  subject  everywhere,  and  from  which  few 
varieties  are  exempt  It  is  the  same  kind  of  weakness 
which  would  be  developed  in  a  fine  sound  horse  if  we  drove 
him  until  he  dropped  down  every  time  we  took  him  out. 
Cultivated  vines  are  so  far  removed  from  their  natural  con 
ditions  that  they  will  often  bear  themselves  to  death,  like 
a  peach-tree.  To  permit  this  is  a  true  instance  of  avarice 
overreaching  itself;  or  the  evil  may  result  from  ignorance 
or  neglect.  Close  pruning  in  autumn  and  thinning  out  the 
crowding  clusters  soon  after  they  have  formed  is  the  remedy. 
If  a  vine  had  been  so  enfeebled,  I  should  cut  it  back  rigor 
ously,  feed  it  well,  and  permit  it  to  bear  very  little  fruit,  if 
any,  for  a  year. 

Of  insect  enemies  we  have  the  phylloxera  of  bad  emi 
nence,  which  has  so  dismayed  Europe.  The  man  who  could 
discover  and  patent  an  adequate  remedy  in  France  might 
soon  rival  a  Eothschild  in  his  wealth.  The  remedy  abroad 
is  also  ours — to  plant  varieties  which  are  phylloxera-proof, 
or  nearly  so.  Fortunately  we  have  many  which  defy  this 
pestiferous  little  root- louse,  and  European  vine-growers  have 
been  importing  them  by  the  million.  They  are  still  used 
chiefly  as  stocks  on  which  to  graft  varieties  of  the  vinifera 
species.  In  California,  grapes  of  the  vinifera  or  European 
species  are  generally  cultivated;  but  the  phylloxera  is  at  its 
destructive  work  among  them.  The  wine-grapes  of  the  fu 
ture  throughout  the  world  may  be  developed  from  the  hardy 
cestivalis  and  cordifolia  classes.  In  many  localities,  even  in 
this  new  land,  varieties  like  the  Delaware  succumb  to  this 
scourge  of  foreign  vineyards. 

The  aphis,  or  plant-louse,  sometimes  attacks  the  young, 
tender  shoots  of  the  vine.  The  moment  they  appear,  take 


62  THE   HOME  ACRE 

off  the  shoot,  and  crush  it  on  a  board  with  the  foot.  Leaf- 
rollers,  the  grape-vine  sphinx,  and  caterpillars  in  general 
must  be  caught  by  hand  and  killed.  Usually  they  are  not 
very  numerous.  The  horrid  little  rose-chafers  or  rose-bugs 
are  sometimes  very  destructive.  Our  best  course  is  to  take 
a  basin  of  water  and  jar  them  off  into  it — they  fall  readily— 
and  then  scald  them  to  death.  We  may  discover  lady-bugs 
—small  red  or  yellow  and  black  beetles — among  our  vines, 
and  many  persons,  I  fear,  will  destroy  them  with  the  rest. 
We  should  take  off  our  hats  to  them  and  wish  them  god 
speed.  In  their  destruction  of  aphides  and  thrips  they  are 
among  our  best  friends.  The  camel-cricket  is  another  active 
destroyer  of  injurious  insects.  Why  do  not  our  schools 
teach  a  little  practical  natural  history  ?  Once,  when  walk1 
ing  in  the  Catskills,  I  saw  the  burly  driver  of  a  stage-load 
of  ladies  bound  out  of  his  vehicle  to  kill  a  garter-snake,  the 
pallid  women  looking  on,  meanwhile,  as  if  the  earth  were 
being  rid  of  some  terrible  and  venomous  thing.  They  ought 
to  have  known  that  the  poor  little  reptile  was  as  harmless  as 
one  of  their  own  garters,  and  quite  as  useful  in  its  way. 
Every  country  boy  and  girl  should  be  taught  to  recognize 
all  our  helpers  in  our  incessant  fight  with  insect  enemies — 
a  fight  which  must  be  maintained  with  more  organized  vigor 
and  intelligence  than  at  present,  if  horticulture  is  ever  to 
reach  its  best  development. 

Wasps  and  hornets  often  swarm  about  the  sweet  and 
early  ripe  varieties.  A  wide-mouthed  bottle  partially  filled 
with  molasses  and  water  will  entrap  and  drown  great  num 
bers  of  these  ugly  customers.  Some  of  our  favorite  birds 
try  our  patience  not  a  little.  During  the  early  summer  I 
never  wearied  of  watching  the  musical  orioles  flashing  with 
their  bright  hues  in  and  out  of  the  foliage  about  the  house; 
but  when  the  early  grapes  were  ripe,  they  took  pay  for  their 
music  with  the  sang-froid  of  a  favorite  prima  donna.  On  one 
occasion  I  saw  three  or  four  alight  on  a  Diana  vine,  and  in 
five  minutes  they  had  spoiled  a  dozen  clusters.  If  they 
would  only  take  a  bunch  and  eat  it  up  clean,  one  would 


THE    VINEYARD    AND    ORCHARD  68 

readily  share  with  them,  for  there  would  be  enough  for  all; 
but  the  dainty  little  epicures  puncture  an  indefinite  number 
of  berries,  merely  taking  a  sip  from  each.  Then  the  wasps 
and  bees  come  along  and  finish  the  clusters.  The  cardinal, 
cat-bird,  and  our  unrivalled  songster  the  wood-thrush,  all 
help  themselves  in  the  same  wasteful  fashion.  One  can't 
shoot  wood- thrushes.  We  should  almost  as  soon  think  of 
killing  ofi  our  Nilssons,  Nevadas,  and  Carys.  The  only 
thing  to  do  is  to  protect  the  clusters;  and  this  can  be  accom 
plished  in  several  ways.  The  most  expeditious  and  satisfac 
tory  method  is  to  cover  the  vines  of  early  grapes  with  cheap 
mosquito  netting.  Another  method  is  to  make  little  bags 
of  this  netting  and  inclose  each  cluster.  Last  fall,  two  of 
my  children  tied  up  many  hundreds  of  clusters  in  little 
paper  bags,  which  can  be  procured  at  wholesale  for  a 
trifling  sum.  The  two  lower  corners  of  the  paper  bags 
should  be  clipped  off  to  permit  the  rain  to  pass  freely 
through  them.  Clusters  ripen  better,  last  longer  on  the  vine, 
and  acquire  a  more  exquisite  bloom  and  flavor  in  this  retire 
ment  than  if  exposed  to  light  as  well  as  to  birds  and  wasps. 
Not  the  fruit  but  the  foliage  of  the  grape-vine  needs  the  sun. 

Few  of  the  early  grapes  will  keep  long  after  being  taken 
from  the  vine;  but  some  of  the  later  ones  can  be  preserved 
well  into  the  winter  by  putting  them  in  small  boxes  and 
storing  them  where  the  temperature  is  cool,  even,  and  dry. 
Some  of  the  wine-grapes,  like  Norton's  Virginia,  will  keep 
under  these  conditions  almost  like  winter  apples.  One  Oc 
tober  day  I  took  a  stone  pot  of  the  largest  size  and  put  in 
first  a  layer  of  Isabella  grapes,  then  a  double  thickness  of 
straw  paper,  then  alternate  layers  of  grapes  and  paper,  until 
the  pot  was  full.  A  cloth  was  next  pasted  over  the  stone 
cover,  so  as  to  make  the  pot  water-tight  The  pot  was  then 
buried  on  a  dry  knoll  below  the  reach  of  frost,  and  dug  up 
again  on  New  Year's  Day.  The  grapes  looked  and  tasted 
as  if  they  had  just  been  picked  from  the  vine. 

For  the  mysteries  of  hybridizing  and  raising  new  seed 
lings,  grafting,  hot- house  and  cold  grapery  culture,  the 


64  THE  HOME   ACRE 

reader  must  look  in  more  extended  works  than  this,  and 
to  writers  who  have  had  experience  in  these  matters. 

We  shall  next  consider  three  fruits  which  upon  the  Home 
Acre  may  be  regarded  as  forming  a  natural  group — peaches, 
plums,  and  raspberries.  If  any  one  expresses  surprise  that 
the  last-named  fruit  should  be  given  this  relationship,  I  have 
merely  to  reply  that  the  raspberry  thrives  in  the  partial 
shade  produced  by  such  small  trees  as  the  peach  and  plum. 
Where  there  is  need  of  economy  of  space  it  is  well  to  take 
advantage  of  this  fact,  for  but  few  products  of  the  garden 
give  any  satisfaction  when  contending  with  roots  below  and 
shade  above. 

We  have  taken  it  for  granted  that  some  grape-vines 
would  be  planted  in  the  two  borders  extending  through  the 
centre  of  the  garden,  also  that  there  would  be  spaces  left 
which  might  be  filled  with  peach  and  plum  trees  and  small 
flowering  shrubs.  If  there  is  to  be  a  good-sized  poultry-yard 
upon  the  acre,  we  should  advise  that  plums  be  planted  in 
that;  but  we  will  speak  of  this  fruit  later,  and  now  give  oar 
attention  to  that  fruit  which  to  the  taste  of  many  is  unri 
valled — the  peach. 

With  the  exception  of  the  strawberry,  it  is  perhaps  the 
only  fruit  for  which  I  prefer  spring  planting.  At  the  same 
time,  I  should  not  hestiate  to  set  out  the  trees  in  autumn. 
The  ground  should  be  good,  but  not  too  highly  fertilized. 
I  prefer  young  trees  but  one  year  old  from  the  bud.  If  set 
out  in  the  fall,  I  should  mound  up  the  earth  eighteen  inches 
about  them,  to  protect  the  roots  and  stem,  and  to  keep  the 
tree  firmly  in  the  soil.  With  this  precaution,  I  am  not  sure 
but  that  fall  planting  has  the  greater  advantage,  except  when 
the  climate  is  very  severe  and  subject  to  great  alternations. 
Plant  with  the  same  care  and  on  the  same  principles  which 
have  been  already  described.  If  a  careful  system  of  pruning 
is  to  be  adopted,  the  trees  may  be  set  out  twelve  feet  apart; 
but  if  they  are  to  be  left  to  grow  at  will,  which  I  regret  to 
say  is  the  usual  practice,  they  should  be  planted  fifteen  feet 
trom  each  other. 


THE    VINEYARD    AND   ORCHARD  65 

There  are  many  good  reasons  why  the  common  orchard 
culture  of  the  peach  should  not  be  adopted  in  the  garden. 
There  is  no  fruit  more  neglected  and  ill-treated  than  the 
beautiful  and  delicious  peach.  The  trees  are  very  cheap, 
usually  costing  but  a  few  cents  each;  they  are  bought  by 
the  thousand  from  careless  dealers,  planted  with  scarcely 
the  attention  given  to  a  cabbage-plant,  and  too  often  allowed 
to  bear  themselves  to  death.  The  land,  trees,  and  cultiva 
tion  cost  so  little  that  one  good  crop  is  expected  to  remu 
nerate  lor  all  outlay.  If  more  crops  are  obtained,  there  is  so 
much  clear  gain.  Cinder  this  slovenly  treatment  there  is,  of 
course,  rapid  deterioration  in  the  stamina  of  the  peach.  Pits 
and  buds  are  taken  from  enfeebled  trees  for  the  purpose  of 
propagation,  and  so  tendencies  to  disease  are  perpetuated 
and  enhanced.  Little  wonder  that  the  fatal  malady,  the 
"yellows,"  has  blighted  so  many  hopes!  I  honestly  believe 
that  millions  of  trees  have  been  sold  in  which  this  disease 
existed  from  the  bud.  If  fine  peaches  were  bred  and  propa 
gated  with  something  of  the  same  care  that  is  bestowed  on 
blooded  stock,  the  results  would  soon  be  proportionate. 
Gardeners  abroad  often  give  more  care  to  one  tree  than 
hundreds  receive  here.  Because  the  peach  has  grown  so 
easily  in  our  climate,  we  have  imposed  on  its  good-nature 
beyond  the  limits  of  endurance,  and  consequently  it  is  not 
easy  to  get  sound,  healthful  trees  that  will  bear  year  after 
year  under  the  best  of  treatment,  as  they  did  with  our 
fathers  with  no  care  at  all.  I  should  look  to  men  who  had 
made  a  reputation  for  sending  out  sound,  healthful  stock 
grown  under  their  own  eyes  from  pits  and  wood  which  they 
know  to  be  free  from  disease.  Do  not  try  to  save  a  few 
pennies  on  the  first  cost  of  trees,  for  the  probabilities  are 
that  such  economy  will  result  in  little  more  than  the 
"yellows." 

In  large  orchards,  cultivated  by  horse-power,  the  stems 
of  the  trees  are  usually  from  four  to  six  feet  high ;  but  in 
the  garden  this  length  of  stem  is  not  necessary,  and  the 
trees  can  be  grown  as  dwarf  standards,  with  stems  begin- 


66  THE   ROME   ACRE 

ning  to  branch  two  feet  from  the  ground.  A  little  study  of 
the  habit  of  growth  in  the  peach  will  show  that,  to  obtain 
the  best  results,  the  pruning-shears  are  almost  as  essential  as 
in  the  case  of  the  grape-vine.  More  than  in  any  other  fruit- 
tree,  the  sap  tends  strongly  toward  the  ends  of  the  shoots. 
Left  to  Nature,  only  the  terminal  buds  of  these  will  grow 
irom  year  to  year;  the  other  buds  lower  down  on  the  shoots 
fail  and  drop  off.  Thus  we  soon  have  long  naked  reaches 
of  unproductive  wood,  or  sucker- like  sprouts  starting  from 
the  bark,  which  are  worse  than  useless.  Our  first  aim  should 
be  to  form  a  round,  open,  symmetrical  head,  shortening  in 
the  shoots  at  least  one-half  each  year,  and  cutting  out  cross 
ing  and  interlacing  branches.  For  instance,  if  we  decide  to 
grow  our  trees  as  dwarf  standards,  we  shall  cut  back  the 
stems  at  a  point  two  feet  from  the  ground  the  first  spring 
after  planting,  and  let  but  three  buds  grow,  to  make  the 
first  three  or  leading  branches.  The  following  spring  we 
shall  cut  back  the  shoots  that  have  formed,  so  as  to  make 
six  leading  branches.  Thereafter  we  shall  continue  to  cut 
out  and  back  so  as  to  maintain  an  open  head  for  the  free 
circulation  of  air  and  light. 

To  learn  the  importance  of  rigorous  and  careful  pruning, 
observe  the  shoots  of  a  vigorous  peach-tree,  say  three  or 
four  years  old.  These  shoots  or  sprays  are  long  and  slen 
der,  lined  with  fruit-buds.  You  will  often  find  two  fruit- 
buds  together,  with  a  leaf-bud  between  them.  If  the 
fruit- buds  have  been  uninjured  by  the  winter,  they  will 
nearly  all  form  peaches,  far  more  than  the  slender  spray 
can  support  or  mature.  The  sap  will  tend  to  give  the  most 
support  to  all  growth  at  the  end  of  the  spray  or  branch. 
The  probable  result  will  be  that  you  will  have  a  score,  more 
or  less,  of  peaches  that  are  little  beyond  skin  and  stones. 
By  midsummer  the  brittle  sprays  will  break,  or  the  limbs 
split  down  at  the  crotches.  You  may  have  myriads  of 
peaches,  but  none  fit  for  market  or  table.  Thousands 
of  baskets  are  sent  to  New  York  annually  that  do  not 
pay  the  expenses  of  freight,  commission,  etc. ;  while  the 


THE    VINEYARD    AND    ORCHARD  67 

orchards  from  which  they  come  are  practically  ruined. 
1  had  two  small  trees  from  which,  one  autumn,  I  sold 
ten  dollars'  worth  of  fruit.  They  yielded  more  profit  than 
is  often  obtained  from  a  hundred  trees. 

Now,  in  the  light  of  these  facts,  realize  the  advantages 
secured  by  cutting  back  the  shoots  or  sprays  so  as  to  leave 
but  three  or  four  fruit- buds  on  each.  The  tree  can  prob 
ably  mature  these  buds  into  large,  beautiful  peaches,  and 
Btill  maintain  its  vigor.  By  this  shortening- in  process  you 
have  less  tree,  but  more  fruit.  The  growth  is  directed  and 
kept  within  proper  limits,  and  the  tree  preserved  for  future 
usefulness.  Thus  the  peach-trees  of  the  garden  will  not 
only  furnish  some  of  the  most  delicious  morsels  of  the 
year,  but  also  a  very  agreeable  and  light  phase  of  labor. 
They  can  be  made  pets  which  will  amply  repay  all  kind 
ness;  and  the  attentions  they  most  appreciate,  strange  to 
say,  are  cutting  and  pinching.  The  pruning-shears  in  March 
and  early  April  can  cut  away  forming  burdens  which  could 
not  be  borne,  and  pinching  back  during  the  summer  can 
maintain  beauty  and  symmetry  in  growth.  When  the  pro 
prietor  of  the  Home  Acre  has  learned  from  experience  to 
do  this  work  judiciously,  his  trees,  like  the  grape-vines, 
will  afiord  many  hours  of  agreeable  and  healthful  recrea 
tion.  If  he  regards  it  as  labor,  one  great,  melting,  luscious 
peach  will  repay  him.  A  small  apple,  pear,  or  strawberry 
usually  has  the  flavor  of  a  large  one;  but  a  peach  to  be  had 
in  perfection  must  be  fully  matured  to  its  limit  of  growth 
on  a  healthful  tree. 

Let  no  one  imagine  that  the  shortening  in  of  shoots 
recommended  consists  of  cutting  the  young  sprays  evenly 
all  round  the  trees  as  one  would  shear  a  hedge.,  It  more 
nearly  resembles  the  pruning  of  the  vine;  for  the  peach, 
like  the  vine,  bears  its  fruit  only  on  the  young  wood  of  the 
previous  summer's  growth.  The  aim  should  be  to  have  this 
young  bearing  wood  distributed  evenly  over  the  tree,  as 
should  be  true  of  a  grape-vine.  When  the  trees  are  kept 

low,  as  dwarf  standards,  the  fruit  is  more  within  reach,  and 
18— ROE— XI 


68  THE   HOME   ACRE 

less  liable  to  be  blown  off  by  high  winds.  Gradually,  how 
ever,  if  the  trees  prove  healthful,  they  will  get  high  enough 
up  in  the  world. 

Notwithstanding  the  rigorous  pruning  recommended,  the 
trees  will  often  overload  themselves;  and  thinning  out  the 
young  peaches  when  as  large  as  hickory  nuts  is  almost  im 
perative  if  we  would  secure  good  fruit.  Men  of  experience 
say  that  when  a  tree  has  set  too  much  fruit,  if  two- thirds 
of  it  are  taken  off  while  little,  the  remaining  third  will 
measure  and  weigh  more  than  would  the  entire  crop,  and 
bring  three  times  as  much  money.  In  flavor  and  beauty 
the  gain  will  certainly  be  more  than  double. 

Throughout  its  entire  growth  and  fruiting  life  the  peach- 
tree  needs  good  cultivation,  and  also  a  good  but  not  over- 
stimulated  soil.  Well- decayed  compost  from  the  cow-stable 
is  probably  the  best  barnyard  fertilizer.  Wood- ashes  are 
peculiarly  agreeable  to  the  constitution  of  this  tree,  and 
tend  to  maintain  it  in  health  and  bearing  long  after  others 
not  so  treated  are  dead.  I  should  advise  that  half  a  peck 
be  worked  in  lightly  every  spring  around  each  tree  as  far 
as  the  branches  extend.  When  enriching  the  ground  about 
a  tree,  never  heap  the  fertilizer  round  the  trunk,  but  spread 
it  evenly  from  the  stem  outward  as  far  as  the  branches 
reach,  remembering  that  the  head  above  is  the  measure  of 
the  root  extension  below.  Air-slacked  lime  is  also  useful 
to  the  peach  in  small  quantities;  and  so,  no  doubt,  would 
be  a  little  salt  from  time  to  time.  Bone-meal  is  highly 
recommended. 

Like  other  fruitArees,  the  peach  does  not  thrive  on  low, 
wet  ground,  and  the  fruit-buds  are  much  more  apt  to  be 
winter-killed  in  such  localities.  A  light,  warm  soil  is  re 
garded  as  the  most  favorable. 

Of  course  we  can  grow  this  fruit  on  espaliers,  as  they  do 
abroad;  but  there  are  few  localities  where  any  advantage 
is  to  be  derived  from  this  course.  In  our  latitude  I  much 
prefer  cool  northern  exposures,  for  the  reason  that  the  fruit- 
buds  are  kept  dormant  during  warm  spells  in  winter,  and 


THE    VINEYARD    AND    ORCHARD  69 

so  late  in  spring  that  they  escape  injury  from  frost.  Alter 
nate  freezing  and  thawing  is  more  harmful  than  steady 
cold.  The  buds  are  seldom  safe,  however,  at  any  time 
when  the  mercury  sinks  ten  or  fifteen  degrees  below  zero. 

As  we  have  intimated,  abuse  of  the  peach-tree  has  devel 
oped  a  fatal  disease,  known  as  the  "yellows."  It  manifests 
itself  in  yellow,  sickly  foliage,  numerous  and  feeble  sprouts 
along  the  larger  limbs  and  trunk,  and  small  miserable  fruit, 
ripening  prematurely.  I  can  almost  taste  the  yellows  in 
much  of  the  fruit  bought  in  market.  Some  regard  the  dis 
ease  as  very  contagious;  others  do  not.  It  is  best  to  be  on 
the  safe  side.  If  a  tree  is  affected  generally,  dig  it  out  by 
the  roots  and  burn  it  at  once;  if  only  a  branch  shows  evi 
dence  of  the  malady,  cut  it  off  well  back,  and  commit  it 
to  the  flames.  The  only  remedy  is  to  propagate  from  trees 
in  sound  health  and  vigor. 

Like  the  apple,  the  peach-tree  is  everywhere  subject  to 
injury  from  a  borer,  named  "exitiosa,  or  the  destructive." 
The  eggs  from  which  these  little  pests  are  hatched  are  laid 
by  the  moth  during  the  summer  upon  the  stem  of  the  tree 
very  near  the  root;  the  grubs  bore  through  the  outer  bark, 
and  devour  the  inner  bark  and  sap-wood.  Fortunately  they 
soon  reveal  their  evil  work  by  the  castings,  and  by  the  gum 
which  exudes  from  the  hole  by  which  they  entered.  They 
can  not  do  much  harm,  unless  a  tree  is  neglected;  in  this 
case,  however,  they  will  soon  enfeeble,  and  probably  de 
stroy  it.  When  once  within  a  tree/  borers  must  be  cut  out 
with  a  sharp-pointed  knife,  carefully  yet  thoroughly.  The 
wounds  from  the  knife  may  be  severe,  but  the  ceaseless 
gnawing  of  the  grub  is  fatal.  If  the  tree  has  been  lacerated 
to  some  extent,  a  plaster  of  moistened  clay  or  cow-manure 
makes  a  good  salve.  Keeping  the  borers  out  of  the  tree  is 
far  better  than  taking  them  out;  and  this  can  be  effected 
by  wrapping  the  stem  at  the  ground — two  inches  below  the 
surface,  and  five  above — with  strong  hardware  or  sheathing 
paper.  If  this  is  tied  tightly  about  the  tree,  the  moth  can 
not  lay  its  eggs  upon  the  stem.  A  neighbor  of  mine  has 


70  THE   HOME    ACRE 

used  this  protection  not  only  on  the  peach,  but  also  on  the 
apple,  with  almost  complete  success.  Of  course  the  pests 
will  try  to  find  their  way  under  it,  and  it  would  be  well  to 
take  off  the  wrapper  occasionally  and  examine  the  trees. 
The  paper  must  also  be  renewed  before  it  is  so  far  decayed 
as  to  be  valueless.  It  should  be  remembered  also  that  the 
borer  will  attack  the  trees  from  the  first  year  of  life  to 
the  end. 

In  order  to  insure  an  unfailing  supply  of  this  delicious 
fruit,  I  should  advise  that  a  few  trees  be  set  out  every 
spring.  The  labor  and  expense  are  scarcely  greater  than 
that  bestowed  upon  a  cabbage  patch,  and  the  reward  is  more 
satisfactory. 

For  this  latitude  the  following  choice  of  varieties  will 
prove,  I  think,  a  good  one:  Early  Alexander,  Early  Bivers, 
Princess  of  Wales,  Brandywine,  Old  Mixon  Free,  Stump  the 
World,  Picquet's  Late,  Crawford's  Late,  Mary's  Choice, 
White  Free  Heath,  Salway,  and  Lord  Palmerston. 

If  the  soil  of  one's  garden  is  stiff,  cold,  adhesive  clay, 
the  peach  would  succeed  much  better  budded  or  grafted  on 
plum-stocks.  Some  of  ths  finest  fruit  I  have  ever  seen  was 
from  seedlings,  the  trees  having  been  grown  from  pits  of 
unusually  good  peaches.  While  the  autumn  planting  of  pits 
lightly  in  the  soil  and  permitting  them  to  develop  into  bear 
ing  trees  is  a  pleasing  and  often  profitable  amusement,  there 
is  no  great  probability  that  the  result  will  be  desirable. 
We  hear  of  the  occasional  prizes  won  in  this  way,  but  not 
of  the  many  failures. 

By  easy  transition  we  pass  to  the  kindred  fruit  the  plum, 
which  does  not  generally  receive  the  attention  it  deserves. 
If  one  has  a  soil  suited  to  it — a  heavy  clay  or  loam — it  can 
usually  be  grown  very  easily.  The  fruit  is  so  grateful  to 
the  taste  and  useful  to  the  housekeeper  that  it  should  be 
given  a  fair  trial,  either  in  the  garden  borders  or  wherever 
a  tree  can  be  planted  so  as  to  secure  plenty  of  light  and  air. 
The  young  trees  may  be  one  or  two  years  old  from  the  bud; 
I  should  prefer  the  former,  if  vigorous.  Never  be  induced 


THE    VINEYARD    AND    ORCHARD  71 

to  purchase  old  trees  by  promises  of  speedy  fruit.  It  IB 
quite  possible  you  may  never  get  any  fruit  at  all  from  them 
worth  mentioning.  I  should  allow  a  space  of  from  ten  to 
fifteen  feet  between  the  trees  when  they  are  planted  together, 
and  I  should  cut  them  back  so  that  they  would  begin  to 
branch  at  two  feet  from  the  ground.  Long,  naked  stems 
are  subject  to  the  gum-disease. 

In  the  place  of  general  advice  in  regard  to  this  fruit  I 
shall  give  the  experience  of  Mr.  T.  S.  Force,  of  Newburgh, 
who  exhibited  seventy  varieties  at  the  last  annual  Orange 
County  fair. 

His  plum-orchard  is  a  large  poultry-yard,  containing  half 
an  acre,  of  which  the  ground  is  a  good  loam,  renting  on  a 
heavy  clay  subsoil.  He  bought  trees  but  one  year  from  the 
bud,  set  them  out  in  autumn,  and  cut  them  back  so  that 
they  began  to  form  their  heads  at  two  feet  from  the  ground. 
He  prefers  starting  with  strong  young  plants  of  this  age, 
and  he  did  not  permit  them  to  bear  for  the  first  three  years, 
his  primal  aim  being  to  develop  a  healthy,  vigorous  tree 
with  a  round,  symmetrical  head.  During  this  period  the 
ground  about  them  was  kept  mellow  by  good  cultivation, 
and,  being  rich  enough  to  start  with,  received  no  fertilizers. 
It  is  his  belief  that  over-fertilization  tends  to  cause  the 
disease  so  well  known  as  the  "black  knot,"  which  has  de 
stroyed  many  orchards  in  this  vicinity.  If  the  garden  has 
been  enriched  as  I  have  directed,  the  soil  will  probably 
need  little,  if  anything,  from  the  stables,  and  certainly  will 
not  if  the  trees  are  grown  in  a  poultry-yard.  During  this 
growing  and  forming  period  Mr.  Force  gave  careful  atten 
tion  to  pruning.  Budded  trees  are  not  even  symmetrical 
growers,  but  tend  to  send  up  a  few  very  strong  shoots  that 
rob  the  rest  of  the  tree  of  sustenance.  Of  course  these  must 
be  cut  well  back  in  early  spring,  or  we  have  long,  naked 
reaches  of  wood  and  a  deformed  tree.  It  is  far  better,  how 
ever,  not  to  let  these  rampant  shoots  grow  to  maturity,  but 
to  pinch  them  back  in  early  summer,  thus  causing  them  to 
throw  out  side-branches.  By  summer  pinching  and  rubbing 


72  THE   HOME   ACRE 

off  of  tender  shoots  a  tree  can  be  made  to  grow  in  any  shape 
we  desire.  When  the  trees  receive  no  summer  pruning, 
Mr.  Force  advises  that  the  branches  be  shortened  in  at  least 
one  half  in  the  spring,  while  some  shoots  are  cut  back  even 
more  rigorously.  At  the  age  of  four  or  five  years,  accord 
ing  to  the  vigor  of  the  trees,  he  permits  them  to  bear 
Now  cultivation  ceases,  and  the  ground  is  left  to  grow 
hard,  but  not  weedy  or  grassy,  beneath  the  boughs.  Every 
spring,  just  as  the  blossoms  are  falling,  he  spreads  evenly 
under  the  branches  four  quarts  of  salt.  While  the  trees 
thrive  and  grow  fruitful  with  this  fertilizer,  the  curculio, 
or  plum-weevil,  does  not  appear  to  find  it  at  all  to  its  taste. 
As  a  result  of  his  methods,  Mr.  Force  has  grown  large  and 
profitable  crops,  and  his  trees  in  the  main  are  kept  healthy 
and  vigorous.  His  remedy  for  the  black  knot  is  to  cut  off 
and  burn  the  small  boughs  and  twigs  affected.  If  the  dis 
ease  appears  in  the  side  of  a  limb  or  in  the  stem,  he  cuts 
out  all  trace  of  it,  and  paints  the  wound  with  a  wash  of  gum 
shellac  and  alcohol. 

Trees  load  so  heavily  that  the  plums  rest  against  one 
another.  You  will  often  find  in  moist  warm  weather  decay 
ing  specimens.  These  should  be  removed  at  once,  that  the 
infection  may  not  spread. 

In  cutting  out  the  interfering  boughs,  do  not  take  off  the 
sharp-pointed  spurs  which  are  forming  along  the  branches, 
for  on  these  are  slowly  maturing  the  fruit- buds.  In  this 
case,  as  in  others,  the  careful  observer,  after  he  has  acquired 
a  few  sound  principles  of  action  to  start  with,  is  taught  more 
by  the  tree  itself  than  from  any  other  source. 

Mr.  Force  recommends  the  following  ten  varieties,  named 
in  the  order  of  ripening:  Canada;  Orleans,  a  red-cheeked 
plum;  McLaughlin,  greenish,  with  pink  cheek;  Bradshaw, 
large  red,  with  lilac  bloom;  Smith's  Orleans,  purple;  Green 
Gage;  Bleeker'sGage,  golden  yellow;  Prune  d'Agen,  purple; 
Coe's  Golden  Drop;  and  Shropshire  Damson  for  preserves. 

If  we  are  restricted  to  very  light  soils,  we  shall  probably 
have  to  grow  some  of  the  native  varieties,  of  the  Canada  and 


THE    VINEYARD    AND    ORCHARD  73 

Wild- Goose  type.  In  regard  to  both  this  fruit  and  peaches 
we  should  be  guided  in  our  selection  by  information  respect 
ing  varieties  peculiarly  suited  to  the  region. 

The  next  chapter  will  treat  of  small  fruits,   beginning 
with  the  raspberry. 


74  THE   HOME   ACRE 


CHAPTER  V 

THE     KASPBERRY 

THE  wide  and  favorable  consideration  given  to  small 
fruits  clearly  marks  one  of  the  changes  in  the  world's 
history.  This  change  may  seem  trifling  indeed  to 
the  dignified  chroniclers  of  kings  and  queens  and  others  of 
high  descent — great  descent,  it  may  be  added,  remembering 
the  moral  depths  attained;  but  to  those  who  care  for  the 
welfare  of  the  people,  it  is  a  mutation  of  no  slight  interest. 
I  am  glad  to  think,  as  has  been  shown  in  a  recent  novel,  that 
Lucrezia  Borgia  was  not  so  black  as  she  has  been  painted; 
yet  in  the  early  days  of  June  and  July,  when  strawberries 
and  raspberries  are  ripening,  I  fancy  that  most  of  us  can 
dismiss  her  and  her  kin  from  mind  as  we  observe  Nature's 
alchemy  in  our  gardens.  When  we  think  of  the  luscious, 
health-imparting  fruits  which  will  grace  millions  of  tables, 
and  remember  that  until  recent  years  they  were  conspicuous 
only  by  their  absence,  we  may  not  slightingly  estimate  a 
great  change  for  the  better.  Once  these  fruits  were  wildings 
which  the  vast  majority  of  our  forefathers  shared  sparingly 
with  the  birds.  Often  still,  unless  we  are  careful,  our  share 
will  be  small  indeed;  for  the  unperverted  taste  of  the  birds 
discovered  from  the  first  what  men  have  been  so  slow  to 
learn — that  the  ruby-like  berries  are  the  gems  best  worth 
seeking.  The  world  is  certainly  progressing  toward  physi 
cal  redemption  when  even  the  Irish  laborer  abridges  his 
cabbage-patch  for  the  sake  of  small  fruits — food  which  a 
dainty  Ariel  could  not  despise. 

.We  have  said  that  raspberries  thrive  in  partial  shade; 


THE   RASPBERRY  75 

and  therefore  some  advice  in  regard  to  them  naturally  fol 
lows  our  consideration  of  trees.  Because  the  raspberry  is 
not  so  exacting  as  are  many  other  products  of  the  garden, 
it  does  not  follow  that  it  should  be  marked  out  for  neglect. 
As  it  is  treated  on  many  places,  the  only  wonder  is  that  even 
the  bushes  survive.  Like  many  who  try  to  do  their  best  in 
adversity,  it  makes  the  most  of  what  people  term  "a  chance 
to  get  ahead." 

Moreover,  the  raspberry  is  perhaps  as  often  injured  by 
mistaken  kindness  as  by  neglect.  If  we  can  imagine  it 
speaking  for  itself,  it  would  say:  "It  is  not  much  that  I 
want,  but  in  the  name  of  common-sense  and  nature  give  me 
just  what  I  do  want;  then  you  may  pick  at  me  to  your 
heart's  content." 

The  first  need  of  the  raspberry  is  a  well-drained  but  not 
a  very  dry,  light  soil.  Yet  such  is  its  adaptability  that  cer 
tain  varieties  can  be  grown  on  any  land  which  will  produce 
a  burdock  or  a  mullien-stalk.  In  fact,  this  question  of 
variety  chiefly  determines  our  chances  of  success  and  the 
nature  of  our  treatment  of  the  fruit.  The  reader,  at  the 
start,  should  be  enabled  to  distinguish  the  three  classes  of 
raspberries  grown  in  this  country. 

As  was  true  of  grapes,  our  fathers  first  endeavored  to 
supply  their  gardens  from  foreign  nurseries,  neglecting  the 
wild  species  with  which  our  woods  and  roadsides  abounded. 
The  raspberry  of  Europe  (Rubus  idaeus)  has  been  developed, 
and  in  many  instances  enfeebled,  by  ages  of  cultivation. 
Nevertheless,  few  other  fruits  have  shown  equal  power  to 
adapt  themselves  to  our  soil  and  climate,  and  we  have  ob 
tained  from  foreign  sources  many  valuable  kinds — as,  for 
instance,  the  Antwerp,  which  for  weeks  together  annually 
taxed  the  carrying  power  of  Hudson  River  steamers.  In 
quality  these  foreign  kinds  have  never  been  surpassed;  but 
almost  invariably  they  have  proved  tender  and  fastidious, 
thriving  well  in  some  localities,  and  failing  utterly  (except 
under  the  most  skilful  care)  in  others.  The  frosts  of  the 
North  killed  them  in  winter,  and  Southern  suns  shrivelled 


76  THE   HOME   ACRE 

their  foliage  in  summer.  Therefore  they  were  not  rasp 
berries  for  the  million,  but  for  those  who  resided  in  favored 
regions,  and  were  willing  to  bestow  upon  them  much  care 
'and  high  culture. 

Eventually  another  process  began,  taking  place  either 
by  chance  or  under  the  skilful  manipulation  of  the  gardener 
— that  of  hybridizing,  or  crossing  these  foreign  varieties  with 
our  hardier  native  species.  The  best  results  have  been  at 
tained  more  frequently,  I  think,  by  chance;  that  is,  the  bees, 
which  get  more  honey  from  the  raspberry  than  from  most 
other  plants,  carried  the  pollen  from  a  native  flower  to  the 
blossom  of  the  garden  exotic.  The  seeds  of  the  fruit  event 
ually  produced  were  endowed  with  characteristics  of  both  the 
foreign  and  native  strains.  Occasionally  these  seeds  fell 
where  they  had  a  chance  to  grow,  and  so  produced  a  fortu 
itous  seedling  plant  which  soon  matured  into  a  bearing  bush, 
differing  from  both  of  its  parents,  and  not  infrequently  sur 
passing  both  in  good  qualities.  Some  one  horticulturally 
inclined  having  observed  the  unusually  fine  fruit  on  the 
chance  plant,  and  believing  that  it  is  a  good  plan  to  help 
the  fittest  to  survive,  marked  the  bush,  and  in  the  autumn 
transferred  it  to  his  garden.  It  speedily  propagated  itself 
by  suckers,  or  young  sprouts  from  the  roots,  and  he  had 
plants  to  sell  or  give  away.  Such,  I  believe,  was  the  history 
of  the  Cuthbert — named  after  the  gentleman  who  found  it, 
and  now  probably  the  favorite  raspberry  of  America. 

Thus  fortuitously,  or  by  the  skill  of  the  gardener,  the 
foreign  and  our  native  species  were  crossed,  and  a  new  and 
hardier  class  of  varieties  obtained.  The  large  size  and  rich 
ness  in  flavor  of  the  European  berry  has  been  bred  into  and 
combined  with  our  smaller  and  more  insipid  indigenous 
fruit.  By  this  process  the  area  of  successful  raspberry 
culture  has  been  extended  almost  indefinitely. 

Within  recent  years  a  third  step  forward  has  been  taken. 
Some  localities  and  soils  were  so  unsuited  to  the  raspberry 
that  no  variety  containing  even  a  small  percentage  of  the 
foreign  element  could  thrive.  This  fact  led  fruit-growers  to 


THE   RASPBERRY  77 

give  still  closer  attention  to  our  native  species.  Wild  bushes 
were  found  here  and  there  which  gave  fruit  of  such  good 
quality  and  in  such  large  quantities  that  they  were  deemed 
well  worthy  of  cultivation.  Many  of  these  wild  specimens 
accepted  cultivation  gratefully,  and  showed  such  marked 
improvement  that  they  were  heralded  over  the  land  as  of 
wonderful  and  surpassing  value.  Some  of  these  pure,  un 
mixed  varieties  of  our  native  species  (Rubus  strigosus)  have 
obtained  a  wide  celebrity ;  as,  for  instance,  the  Brandy  wine, 
Highland  Hardy,  and,  best  of  all,  the  Turner.  It  should  be 
distinctly  understood,  however,  that,  with  the  exception  of 
the  last-named  kind,  these  native  varieties  are  decidedly 
inferior  to  most  of  the  foreign  berries  and  their  hybrids 
or  crosses,  like  the  Cuthbert  and  Marlboro.  Thousands  have 
been  misled  by  their  praise,  and  have  planted  them  when 
they  might  just  as  easily  have  grown  far  better  kinds.  I 
suppose  that  many  wealthy  persons  in  the  latitudes  of  New 
York  and  Boston  have  told  their  gardeners  (or  more  probably 
were  told  by  them):  "We  do  not  wish  any  of  those  wild 
kinds.  Brinckle's  Orange,  Franconia,  and  the  Antwerp  are 
good  enough  for  us. ' '  So  they  should  be,  for  they  are  the 
best;  but  they  are  all  foreign  varieties,  and  scarcely  will 
live  at  all,  much  less  be  productive,  in  wide  areas  of  the 
country. 

I  trust  that  this  preliminary  discussion  in  regard  to  red 
raspberries  will  prepare  the  way  for  the  advice  to  follow, 
and  enable  the  proprietor  of  the  Home  Acre  to  act  intelli 
gently.  Sensible  men  do  not  like  to  be  told,  "You  cannot 
do  this,  and  must  not  do  that" — in  other  words,  to  be  met 
the  moment  they  step  into  their  gardens  by  the  arbitrary 
dictum  of  A,  B,  or  C.  They  wish  to  unite  with  Nature  in 
producing  certain  results.  Understanding  her  simple  laws, 
they  work  hopefully,  confidently;  and  they  cannot  be  im 
posed  upon  by  those  who  either  wittingly  or  unwittingly 
give  bad  advice.  Having  explained  the  natural  principles 
on  which  I  base  my  directions,  I  can  expect  the  reader  to 


78  THE   HOME   ACRE 

follow  each  step  with  the  prospect  of  success  and  enjoy 
ment  much  enhanced. 

The  question  first  arising  is,  What  shall  we  plant?  As 
before,  I  shall  give  the  selection  of  eminent  authorities,  then 
suggest  to  the  reader  the  restrictions  under  which  he  should 
make  a  choice  for  his  own  peculiar  soil  and  climate. 

Dr.  F.  M.  Hexamer,  the  well-known  editor  of  a  leading 
iorticultural  journal,  is  recognized  throughout  the  land  as 
having  few,  if  any,  superiors  in  recent  and  practical  ac 
quaintance  with  small  fruits.  The  following  is  his  selection: 
"Cuthbert,  Turner,  and  Marlboro."  The  Hon.  Marshall  P. 
Wilder's  choice:  "Brinckle's  Orange,  Franconia,  Cuthbert, 
Herstine,  Shaffer."  The  Hon.  Norman  J.  Colman,  Com 
missioner  of  Agriculture:  "Turner,  Marlboro,  Cuthbert." 
P.  J.  Berckmans,  of  Georgia:  "Cuthbert,  Hansel,  Lost 
Eubies,  Imperial  Bed."  A.  S.  Fuller:  "Turner,  Cuthbert, 
Hansel." 

In  analyzing'  this  list  we  find  three  distinctly  foreign 
kinds  named:  the  Orange,  Franconia,  and  Herstine.  If  the 
last  is  not  wholly  of  foreign  origin,  the  element  of  our  native 
species  enters  into  it  so  slightly  that  it  will  not  endure  win 
ters  in  our  latitude,  or  the  summer  sun  of  the  South.  For 
excellence,  however,  it  is  unsurpassed. 

In  the  Cuthbert,  Marlboro,  and  Lost  Eubies  we  have 
hybrids  of  the  foreign  and  our  native  species,  forming  the 
second  class  referred  to;  in  the  Turner  and  Hansel,  examples 
of  our  native  species  unmixed.  To  each  of  these  classes 
might  be  added  a  score  of  other  varieties  which  have  been 
more  or  less  popular,  but  they  would  serve  only  to  distract 
the  reader's  attention.  I  have  tested  forty  or  fifty  kinds 
side  by  side  at  one  time,  only  to  be  shown  that  four  or  five 
varieties  would  answer  all  practical  purposes.  I  can  assure 
the  reader,  however,  that  it  will  be  scarcely  possible  to  find 
a  soil  or  climate  where  some  of  these  approved  sorts  will  not 
thrive  abundantly  and  at  slight  outlay. 

Throughout  southern  New  England,  along  the  bank  of 
the  Hudson,  and  westward,  almost  any  raspberry  can  be 


THE   RASPBERRY  79 

grown  with  proper  treatment.  There  are  exceptions,  which 
are  somewhat  curious.  For  instance,  the  famous  Hudson 
River  Antwerp,  which  until  within  a  very  few  years  has 
been  one  of  the  great  crops  of  the  State,  has  never  been 
grown  successfully  to  any  extent  except  on  the  west  bank 
of  the  river,  and  within  the  limited  area  of  Kingston  on  the 
north  and  Cornwall  on  the  south.  The  Franconia,  another 
foreign  sort,  has  proved  itself  adapted  to  more  extended 
conditions  of  soil  and  climate. 

I  have  grown  successfully  nearly  every  well-  known  rasp 
berry,  and  perhaps  I  can  best  give  the  instruction  I  desire 
to  convey  by  describing  the  methods  finally  adopted  after 
many  years  of  observation,  reading,  and  experience.  1  will 
speak  of  the  class  first  named,  belonging  to  the  foreign  spe 
cies,  of  which  I  have  tested  many  varieties.  I  expect  to  set 
out  this  year  rows  of  Brinckle's  Orange,  Franconia,  Hudson 
Eiver  Antwerp,  and  others.  For  this  class  I  should  make 
the  ground  very  rich,  deep,  and  mellow.  I  should  prefer 
to  set  out  the  plants  in  the  autumn — from  the  middle  of 
October  to  the  tenth  of  November;  if  not  then,  in  early 
spring — the  earlier  the  better — while  the  buds  are  dormant. 
I  should  have  the  rows  four  feet  apart;  and  if  the  plants 
were  to  be  grown  among  the  smaller  fruit-trees,  I  should 
maintain  a  distance  from  them  of  at  least  seven  feet.  I 
should  use  only  young  plants,  those  of  the  previous  sum 
mer's  growth,  and  set  them  in  the  ground  about  as  deeply 
as  they  stood  when  taken  up — say  three  or  four  inches  of 
earth  above  the  point  from  which  the  roots  branched.  I 
should  put  two  well-rooted  plants  in  each  hill,  and  this 
would  make  the  hills  four  feet  apart  each  way.  By  "hills" 
I  do  not  mean  elevations  of  ground.  This  should  be  kept 
level  throughout  all  future  cultivation.  I  should  cut  back 
the  canes  or  stems  of  the  plants  to  six  inches.  Thousands 
of  plants  are  lost  or  put  back  in  their  growth  by  leaving 
two  or  three  feet  of  the  canes  to  grow  the  first  year.  Never 
do  this.  The  little  fruit  gained  thus  prematurely  always 
entails  a  hundred-fold  of  loss.  Having  set  out  the  plants, 


80  THE   HOME   ACRE 

I  should  next  scatter  over  and  about  them  one  or  two 
shovelfuls  of  old  compost  or  decayed  manure  of  some 
kind.  If  the  plants  had  been  set  out  in  the  fall,  I  should 
mound  the  earth  over  them  before  freezing  weather,  so  that 
there  should  be  at  least  four  inches  of  soil  over  the  tops  of 
the  stems.  This  little  mound  of  earth  over  the  plants  or 
hill  would  protect  against  all  injury  from  frost.  In  the 
spring  I  should  remove  these  mounds  of  earth  so  as  to 
leave  the  ground  perfectly  level  on  all  sides,  and  the  short 
ened  canes  projecting,  as  at  first,  six  inches  above  the  sur 
face.  During  the  remainder  of  the  spring  and  summer  the 
soil  between  the  plants  chiefly  requires  to  be  kept  open, 
mellow,  and  free  from  weeds.  In  using  the  hoe,  be  careful 
not  to  cut  off  the  young  raspberry  sprouts,  on  which  the 
future  crop  depends.  Do  not  be  disappointed  if  the  growth 
seems  feeble  the  first  year,  for  these  foreign  kinds  are  often 
slow  in  starting.  In  November,  before  there  is  any  danger 
of  the  ground  freezing,  I  should  cut  back  the  young  canes 
at  least  one-third  of  their  length,  bend  them  gently  down, 
and  cover  them  with  earth  to  the  depth  of  four  or  five 
inches.  It  must  be  distinctly  remembered  that  very  few  of 
the  foreign  kinds  would  endure  our  winter  unprotected. 
Every  autumn  they  must  be  covered  as  I  have  directed. 
Is  any  one  aghast  at  this  labor  ?  Nonsense !  Antwerps  are 
covered  by  the  acre  along  the  Hudson.  A  man  and  a  boy 
would  cover  in  an  hour  all  that  are  needed  for  a  garden. 

After  the  first  year  the  foreign  varieties,  like  all  others, 
will  send  up  too  many  sprouts,  or  suckers.  Unless  new 
plants  are  wanted,  these  should  be  treated  as  weeds,  and 
only  from  three  to  five  young  canes  be  left  to  grow  in  each 
hill.  This  is  a  very  important  point,  for  too  often  the  rasp 
berry-patch  is  neglected  until  it  is  a  mass  of  tangled  bushes. 
Keep  this  simple  principle  in  mind:  there  is  a  given  amount 
of  root-power;  if  this  cannot  be  expended  in  making  young 
sprouts  all  over  the  ground,  it  goes  to  produce  a  few  strong 
fruit- bearing  canes  in  the  hill.  In  other  words,  you  restrict 
the  whole  force  of  the  plant  to  the  precise  work  required 


THE   RASPBERRY  81 

— the  giving  of  berries.  As  the  original  plants  grow  older, 
they  will  show  a  constantly  decreasing  tendency  to  throw 
up  new  shoots;  but  as  long  as  they  continue  to  grow,  let 
only  those  survive  which  are  designed  to  bear  the  following 
season. 

The  canes  of  cultivated  raspberries  are  biennial.  A  young 
and  in  most  varieties  a  fruitless  cane  is  produced  in  one 
season;  it  bears  in  July  the  second  year,  and  then  its  use 
fulness  is  over.  It  will  continue  to  live  in  a  half-dying  way 
until  fall,  but  it  is  a  useless  and  unsightly  life.  I  know  that 
it  is  contended  by  some  that  the  foliage  on  the  old  canes 
aids  in  nourishing  the  plants;  but  I  think  that,  under  all 
ordinary  circumstances,  the  leaves  on  the  young  growth  are 
abundantly  sufficient.  By  removing  the  old  canes  after 
they  have  borne  their  fruit,  an  aspect  of  neatness  is  im 
parted,  which  would  be  conspicuously  absent  were  they 
left.  Every  autumn,  before  laying  the  canes  down,  I  should 
shorten  them  in  one-third.  The  remaining  two-thirds  will 
give  more  fruit  by  actual  measurement,  and  the  berries 
will  be  finer  and  larger,  than  if  the  canes  were  left  intact. 
From  first  to  last  the  soil  about  the  foreign  varieties  should 
be  maintained  in  a  high  degree  of  fertility  and  mellowness. 
Of  manures  from  the  barnyard,  that  from  the  cow-stable  is 
the  best;  wood-ashes,  bone-dust,  and  decayed  leaves  also 
are  excellent  fertilizers.  During  all  this  period  the  partial 
shade  of  small  trees  will  be  beneficial  rather  than  otherwise, 
for  it  should  be  remembered  that  sheltered  localities  are  the 
natural  habitat  of  the  raspberry. 

By  a  little  inquiry  the  reader  can  learn  whether  varieties 
of  the  foreign  class  are  grown  successfully  in  his  vicinity. 
If  they  are,  he  can  raise  them  also  by  following  the  direc 
tions  which  have  been  given.  Brinckle's  Orange — a  buff- 
colored  berry — is  certainly  one  of  the  most  beautiful,  deli 
cate,  and  delicious  fruits  in  existence,  and  is  well  worth 
all  the  care  it  requires  in  the  regions  where  it  will  grow; 
while  the  Franconia  and  others  should  never  be  permitted 
to  die  out  by  fruit  connoisseurs.  If  the  soil  of  your  garden 


82  THE   HOME    ACRE 

is  light  and  sandy,  or  if  you  live  much  south  of  New  York, 
I  should  not  advise  their  trial.  They  may  be  grown  far  to 
the  north,  however.  I  am  told  that  tender  varieties  of  fruits 
that  can  be  covered  thrive  even  better  in  Canada  than  with 
us.  There  deep  snow  protects  the  land,  and  in  spring  and 
autumn  they  do  not  have  long  periods  when  the  bare  earth 
is  alternately  freezing  and  thawing. 

In  the  second  class  of  raspberries,  the  crosses  between 
the  foreign  and  native  species,  we  now  have  such  fine 
varieties  that  no  one  has  much  cause  for  regret  if  he  can 
raise  them;  and  I  scarcely  see  how  he  can  help  raising 
them  if  he  has  sufficient  energy  to  set  out  a  few  plants  and 
keep  them  free  from  weeds  and  superabundant  suckers. 
Take  the  Cuthbert,  for  instance;  you  may  set  it  out  almost 
anywhere,  and  in  almost  any  latitude  except  that  of  the 
extreme  Southern  States.  But  you  must  reverse  the  con 
ditions  required  for  the  foreign  kinds.  If  the  ground  is  very 
rich,  the  canes  will  threaten  to  grow  out  of  sight.  I  advise 
that  this  strong-growing  sort  be  planted  in  rows  five  feet 
apart.  Any  ordinary  soil  is  good  enough  for  the  Cuthbert 
to  start  in,  and  the  plants  will  need  only  a  moderate  degree 
of  fertilizing  as  they  begin  to  lose  a  little  of  their  first  vigor. 
Of  course,  if  the  ground  is  unusually  light  and  poor,  it 
should  be  enriched  and  maintained  in  a  fair  degree  of  fer 
tility.  The  point  I  wish  to  make  is  that  this  variety  will 
thrive  where  most  others  would  starve;  but  there  is  plenty 
of  land  on  which  anything  will  starve.  The  Cuthbert  is  a 
large,  late  berry,  which  continues  long  in  bearing,  and  is 
deserving  of  a  place  in  every  garden.  I  have  grown  it  for 
many  years,  and  have  never  given  it  any  protection  what 
ever.  Occasionally  there  comes  a  winter  which  kills  the 
canes  to  the  ground.  I  should  perhaps  explain  to  the 
reader  here  that  even  in  the  case  of  the  tender  foreign 
kinds  it  is  only  the  canes  that  are  killed  by  the  frost;  the 
roots  below  the  surface  are  uninjured,  and  throw  up  vigor 
ous  sprouts  the  following  spring.  The  Cuthbert  is  so  nearly 
hardy  that  we  let  it  take  its  chances,  and  probably  in  eight 


THE   RASPBERRY  88 

winters  out  of  ten  it  would  stand  unharmed.  Its  hardiness 
is  greatly  enhanced  when  grown  on  well-drained  soils. 

It  now  has  a  companion  berry  in  the  Marlboro — a  variety 
but  recently  introduced,  and  therefore  not  thoroughly  tested 
as  yet.  Its  promise,  however,  is  very  fine,  and  it  has  se 
cured  the  strong  yet  qualified  approval  of  the  best  fruit 
critics.  It  requires  richer  soil  and  better  treatment  than 
the  Cuthbert,  and  it  remains  to  be  seen  whether  it  is  equally 
hardy.  It  is  well  worth  winter  protection  if  it  is  not.  It  is 
not  a  suitable  berry  for  the  home  garden  if  no  other  is  grown, 
for  the  reason  that  it  matures  its  entire  crop  within  a  brief 
time,  and  thus  would  give  a  family  but  a  short  season  of 
raspberries.  Cultivated  in  connection  with  the  Cuthbert,  it 
would  be  admirable,  for  it  is  very  early,  and  would  produce 
its  fruit  before  the  Cuthberts  were  ripe.  Unitedly  the  two 
varieties  would  give  a  family  six  weeks  of  raspberries. 
There  are  scores  of  other  kinds  in  this  class,  and  some  are 
very  good  indeed,  well  worth  a  place  in  an  amateur's  col 
lection;  but  the  two  already  named  are  sufficient  to  supply 
a  family  with  excellent  fruit. 

Of  the  third  class  of  red  raspberries,  representing  our 
pure  native  species,  I  should  recommend  only  one  variety — 
the  Turner;  and  that  is  so  good  that  it  deserves  a  place  in 
every  collection.  It  certainly  is  a  remarkable  raspberry, 
and  has  an  unusual  history,  which  I  have  given  in  my 
work  "Success  with  Small  Fruits."  I  doubt  whether  there 
is  a  hardier  raspberry  in  America— one  that  can  be  grown 
so  far  to  the  north,  and,  what  is  still  more  in  its  favor,  so 
far  to  the  south.  In  the  latter  region  it  is  known  as  the 
Southern  Thornless.  The  fact  that  it  is  almost  wholly 
without  spines  is  a  good  quality;  but  it  is  only  one  among 
many  others.  The  Turner  requires  no  winter  protection 
whatever,  will  grow  on  almost  any  soil  in  existence,  and 
in  almost  any  climate.  It  yields  abundantly  medium-sized 
berries  of  good  flavor.  The  fruit  begins  to  ripen  early, 
and  lasts  throughout  a  somewhat  extended  season.  It  will 
probably  give  more  berries,  with  more  certainty  and  less 


84  THE   HOME   ACRE 

trouble,  than  any  other  variety.  Even  its  fault  leans  to 
virtue's  side.  Set  out  a  single  plant,  leave  it  to  Nature, 
and  in  time  it  will  cover  the  place  with  Turner  raspberries; 
and  yet  it  will  do  this  in  a  quiet,  unobtrusive  way,  for  it  is 
not  a  rampant,  ugly  grower.  While  it  will  persist  in  living 
under  almost  any  circumstances,  I  have  found  no.  variety 
that  responded  more  gratefully  to  good  treatment.  This 
consists  simply  in  three  things:  (1)  rigorous  restriction  of 
the  suckers  to  four  or  five  canes  in  the  bill;  (2)  keeping 
the  soil  clean  and  mellow  about  the  bearing  plants;  (3) 
making  this  soil  rich.  Its  dwarf  habit  of  growth,  unlike 
that  of  the  Cuthbert,  enables  one  to  stimulate  it  with  any 
kind  of  manure.  By  this  course  the  size  of  the  bushes  is 
greatly  increased,  and  enormous  crops  can  be  obtained. 

I  prefer  to  set  out  all  raspberries  in  the  fall,  although 
as  a  matter  of  convenience  I  often  perform  the  task  in  the 
early  spring.  I  do  not  believe  in  late  spring  planting,  ex 
cept  as  one  takes  up  a  young  sprout,  two  or  three  inches 
high,  and  sets  it  out  as  one  would  a  tomato-plant.  By  this 
course  time  is  often  saved.  When  it  is  our  wish  to  increase 
the  quality  and  quantity  of  the  fruit,  I  should  advise  that 
the  canes  of  all  varieties  be  cut  back  one-third  of  their 
length.  A  little  observation  will  teach  us  the  reason  for 
this.  Permit  a  long  cane  to  bear  throughout  its  natural 
length,  and  you  will  note  that  many  buds  near  the  ground 
remain  dormant  or  make  a  feeble  growth.  The  sap,  follow 
ing  a  general  law  of  nature,  pushes  to  the  extremities,  and 
is,  moreover,  too  much  diffused.  Cut  away  one-third> 
and  all  the  buds  start  with  redoubled  vigor,  while  more 
and  larger  fruit  is  the  result.  If,  however,  earliness  in 
ripening  is  the  chief  consideration,  as  it  often  is,  especially 
with  the  market-gardener,  leave  the  canes  unpruned,  and 
the  fruit  ripens  a  few  days  sooner. 

In  purveying  for  the  home  table,  white  raspberries  offer 
the  attractions  of  variety  and  beauty.  In  the  case  of 
Brinckle's  Orange,  its  exquisite  flavor  is  the  chief  con 
sideration;  but  this  fastidious  foreign  berry  is  practically 


THE   RASPBERRY  85 

beyond  the  reach  of  the  majority.  There  is,  however,  an 
excellent  variety,  the  Caroline,  which  is  almost  as  hardy 
as  the  Turner,  and  more  easily  grown,  it  would  seem  that 
Nature  designed  every  one  to  have  it  (if  we  may  say  it  of 
Caroline),  for  not  only  does  it  sucker  freely  like  the  red 
raspberries,  but  the  tips  of  the  canes  also  bend  over,  take 
root,  and  form  new  plants.  The  one  thing  that  Caroline 
needs  is  repression,  the  curb;  she  is  too  intense. 

I  am  inclined  to  think,  however,  that  she  has  had  her 
day,  even  as  an  attendant  on  royalty,  for  a  new  variety, 
claiming  the  high-sounding  title  of  Golden  Queen,  has 
mysteriously  appeared.  I  say  mysteriously,  for  it  is  diffi 
cult  to  account  for  her  origin.  Mr.  Ezra  Stokes,  a  fruit 
grower  of  New  Jersey,  had  a  field  of  twelve  acres  planted 
with  Cuthbert  raspberries.  In  this  field  he  found  a  bush 
producing  white  berries.  In  brief,  he  found  an  Albino  of 
the  Cuthbert.  Of  the  causes  of  her  existence  he  knows 
nothing.  All  we  can  say,  I  suppose,  is  that  the  variation 
was  produced  by  some  unknown  impulse  of  Nature. 
Deriving  her  claims  from  such  a  source,  she  certainly  has 
a  better  title  to  royalty  than  most  of  her  sister  queens,  who, 
according  to  history,  have  been  commonplace  women,  sug 
gesting  anything  but  nature.  With  the  exception  of  the 
Philadelphians,  perhaps,  we  as  a  people  will  not  stand  on 
the  question  of  ancestry,  and  shall  be  more  inclined  to  see 
how  she  ' '  queens  it. ' ' 

Of  course  the  enthusiastic  discoverer  and  disseminators 
of  this  variety  claim  that  it  is  not  only  like  the  Cuthbert, 
but  far  better.  Let  us  try  it  and  see;  if  it  is  as  good,  we 
may  well  be  content,  and  can  grace  our  tables  with  beauti 
ful  fruit. 

There  is  another  American  species  of  raspberry  (Rubvj 
occidentalis)  that  is  almost  as  dear  to  memory  as  the  wild 
strawberry — the  thimble-berry,  or  black-cap.  I  confess  that 
the  wild  flavor  of  this  fruit  is  more  to  my  taste  than  that  of 
any  other  raspberry.  Apparently  its  seeds  have  been  sown 
broadcast  over  the  continent,  for  it  is  found  almost  every- 


THE   HOME   ACRE 

where,  and  there  have  been  few  children  in  America  whose 
lips  have  not  been  stained  by  the  dark  purple  juice  of  its 
fruit.  Seeds  dropped  in  neglected  pastures,  by  fence  and 
roadsides,  and  along  the  edges  of  the  forest,  produce  new 
varieties  which  do  not  propagate  themselves  by  suckers  like 
red  raspberries,  but  in  a  manner  quite  distinct.  The  young 
purple  canes  bend  over  and  take  root  in  the  soil  during  Au 
gust,  September,  and  October.  At  the  extreme  end  of  the 
tip  from  which  the  roots  descend  a  bud  is  formed,  which 
remains  dormant  until  the  following  spring.  Therefore  the 
young  plant  we  set  out  is  a  more  or  less  thick  mass  of  roots, 
a  green  bud,  and  usually  a  bit  of  the  old  parent  cane,  which 
is  of  no  further  service  except  as  a  handle  and  a  mark  indi 
cating  the  location  of  the  plant.  After  the  ground  has  been 
prepared  as  one  would  for  corn  or  potatoes,  it  should  be 
levelled,  a  line  stretched  for  the  row,  and  the  plants  set  four 
feet  apart  in  the  row.  Sink  the  roots  as  straight  down  as 
possible,  and  let  the  bud  point  upward,  covering  it  lightly 
with  merely  one  or  two  inches  of  soil.  Press  the  ground 
firmly  against  the  roots,  but  not  on  the  bud.  The  soil  just 
over  this  should  be  fine  and  mellow,  so  that  the  young  shoot 
can  push  through  easily,  which  it  will  soon  do  if  the  plants 
are  in  good  condition.  Except  in  the  extreme  South, 
spring  is  by  far  the  best  time  for  planting,  and  it  should 
be  done  early,  while  the  buds  are  dormant.  After  these 
begin  to  grow,  keep  the  ground  mellow  and  free  from  weeds. 
The  first  effort  of  the  young  plant  will  be  to  propagate  itself. 
It  will  sprawl  over  the  ground  if  left  to  its  wild  impulses, 
and  will  not  make  an  upright  bearing  bush.  On  this  ac 
count  put  a  stake  down  by  the  young  sprout,  and  as  it  grows 
keep  it  tied  up  and  away  from  the  ground.  When  the  side- 
branches  are  eight  or  ten  inches  long,  pinch  them  back,  thus 
throwing  the  chief  strength  into  the  central  cane.  By  keep 
ing  all  the  branches  pinched  back  you  form  the  plant  into 
an  erect,  sturdy  bush  that  will  load  itself  with  berries  the 
following  year.  .No  fruit  will  be  borne  the  first  season. 
The  young  canes  of  the  second  year  will  incline  to  be  more 


THE   RASPBERRY  87 

sturdy  and  erect  in  their  growth ;  but  this  tendency  can  be 
greatly  enhanced  by  clipping  the  long  slender  branches  which 
are  thrown  out  on  every  side.  As  soon  as  the  old  canes  are 
through  bearing,  they  should  be  cut  out  and  burned  or  com 
posted  with  other  refuse  from  the  garden.  Black-caps  may 
be  planted  on  any  soil  that  is  not  too  dry.  When  the  plant 
suffers  from  drought,  the  fruit  consists  of  little  else  than 
seeds.  To  escape  this  defect  I  prefer  to  put  the  black-caps 
in  a  moist  location;  and  it  is  one  of  the  few  fruits  that  will 
thrive  in  a  cold,  wet  soil.  One  can  set  out  plants  here  and 
there  in  out-of-the-way  corners,  and  they  often  do  better 
than  those  in  the  garden,  indeed,  unless  a  place  is  kept 
up  very  neatly,  many  such  bushes  will  be  found  growing 
wild,  and  producing  excellent  fruit. 

The  question  may  arise  in  some  minds,  Why  buy  plants? 
Why  not  get  them  from  the  woods  and  fields,  or  let  Nature 
provide  bushes  for  us  where  she  will?  yVhen  Nature  pro 
duces  a  bush  on  my  place  where  it  is  not  in  the  way,  I  let  it 
grow,  and  pick  the  fruit  in  my  rambles;  but  the  supply 
would  be  precarious  indeed  for  a  family.  By  all  means  get 
plants  from  the  woods  if  you  have  marked  a  bush  that 
produces  unusually  fine  fruit.  It  is  by  just  this  course  that 
the  finest  varieties  have  been  obtained.  If  you  go  a-berry- 
ing,  you  may  light  on  something  finer  than  has  yet  been 
discovered;  but  it  is  not  very  probable.  Meanwhile,  for  a 
dollar  you  can  get  all  the  plants  you  want  of  the  two  or 
three  best  varieties  that  have  yet  been  discovered,  from 
Maine  to  California.  After  testing  a  great  many  kinds,  I 
should  recommend  the  Souhegan  for  early,  and  the  Mam 
moth  Cluster  and  Gregg  for  late.  A  clean,  mellow  soil  in 
good  condition,  frequent  pinchings  back  of  the  canes  in 
summer,  or  a  rigorous  use  of  the  pruning-shears  in  spring, 
are  all  that  is  required  to  secure  an  abundant  crop  from  year 
to  year.  This  species  may  also  be  grown  among  trees.  I 
advise  that  every  kind  and  description  of  raspberries  be  kept 
tied  to  stakes  or  a  wire  trellis.  The  wood  ripens  better,  the 
fruit  is  cleaner  and  richer  from  exposure  to  air  and  sunshine, 


88  THE   HOME   ACRE 

and  the  garden  is  far  neater  than  if  the  canes  are  sprawling 
at  will.  I  know  that  all  horticulturists  advise  that  the  plants 
be  pinched  back  so  thoroughly  as  to  form  self-supporting 
bushes;  but  1  have  yet  to  see  the  careful  fruit-grower  who 
did  this,  or  the  bushes  that  some  thunder-gusts  would  not 
prostrate  into  the  mud  with  all  their  precious  burden,  were 
they  not  well  supported.  "Why  take  the  risk  to  save  a  two 
penny  stake? 

If,  just  before  the  fruit  begins  to  ripen,  a  mulch  of  leaves, 
cut  grass,  or  any  litter  that  will  cover  the  ground  slightly, 
is  placed  under  and  around  the  bushes,  it  may  save  a  great 
deal  of  fruit  from  being  spoiled.  The  raspberry  season  is 
also  the  hour  and  opportunity  for  thunder- showers,  whose 
great  slanting  drops  often  splash  the  soil  to  surprising  dis 
tances.  Sugar-and-cream-coated,  not  mud-coated,  berries, 
if  you  please. 

In  my  remarks  on  raspberries  I  have  not  named  many 
varieties,  and  have  rather  laid  stress  on  the  principles  which 
may  guide  the  reader  in  his  present  and  future  selections  of 
kinds.  Sufficient  in  number  and  variety  to  meet  the  needs 
of  every  family  have  been  mentioned.  The  amateur  may 
gratify  his  taste  by  testing  other  sorts  described  in  nursery 
men's  catalogues.  Moreover,  every  year  or  two  some  new 
variety  will  be  heralded  throughout  the  land.  The  reader 
has  merely  to  keep  in  mind  the  three  classes  of  raspberries 
described  and  their  characteristics,  in  order  to  make  an  in 
telligent  choice  from  old  and  new  candidates  for  favor. 

It  should  also  be  remembered  that  the  raspberry  is  a 
Northern  fruit.  I  am  often  asked  in  effect,  What  raspber 
ries  do  you  recommend  for  the  Gulf  States?  I  suppose  my 
best  reply  would  be,  What  oranges  do  you  think  best  adapted 
to  New  York  ?  Most  of  the  foreign  kinds  falter  and  fail  in 
New  Jersey  and  Southern  Pennsylvania;  the  Cuthbert  and 
its  class  can  be  grown  much  further  south,  while  the  Turner 
and  the  black-caps  thrive  almost  to  Florida. 

.Raspberries,  especially  those  of  our  native  species,  are 
comparatively  tree  from  disease.  Foreign  varieties  and 


THE   RASPBERRY  89 

their  hybrids  are  sometimes  afflicted  with  the  curl-leaf.  The 
foliage  crimps  up,  the  canes  are  dwarfed,  and  the  whole  plant 
has  a  sickly  and  often  yellow  appearance.  The  only  remedy 
is  to  dig  up  the  plant,  root  and  branch,  and  burn  it. 

A  disease  termed  the  "rust"  not  infrequently  attacks  old 
and  poorly  nourished  black-cap  bushes.  The  leaves  take  on 
an  ochreous  color,  and  the  plant  is  seen  to  be  failing.  Ex 
tirpate  it  as  directed  above.  If  many  bushes  are  affected,  I 
advise  that  the  whole  patch  be  rooted  up,  and  healthy  plants 
set  out  elsewhere. 

It  is  a  well-known  law  of  Nature  that  plants  of  nearly  all 
kinds  appear  to  exhaust  from  the  soil  in  time  the  ingredients 
peculiarly  acceptable  to  them.  Skill  can  do  much  toward 
maintaining  the  needful  supply;  but  the  best  and  easiest 
plan  is  not  to  grow  any  of  the  small  fruits  too  long  in  any 
one  locality.  By  setting  out  new  plants  on  different  ground, 
far  better  results  are  attained  with  much  less  trouble. 


THE   HOME    ACRE 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE      CU  RR ANT 

WHO  that  has  ever  lived  in  the  country  does  not 
remember  the  old  straggling  currant-bushes  that 
disputed  their  existence  with  grass,  docks,  and 
other  coarse-growing  weeds  along  some  ancient  fence  ? 
Many  also  can  recall  the  weary  task  of  gathering  a  quart 
or  two  of  the  diminutive  fruit  for  pies,  and  the  endless 
picking  required  to  obtain  enough  for  the  annual  jelly- 
making.  Nor  is  this  condition  of  affairs  a  thing  of  the  past. 
Drive  through  the  land  where  you  will  in  early  July,  and 
you  will  see  farmers  mowing  round  the  venerable  Eed  Dutch 
currants  "to  give  the  women- folks  a  chance  at  "em."  The 
average  farmer  still  bestows  upon  this  fruit  about  as  much 
attention  as  the  aborigines  gave  to  their  patches  of  maize. 
This  seems  very  absurd  when  we  remember  the  important 
place  held  in  the  domestic  economy  by  the  currant,  and  how 
greatly  it  improves  under  decent  treatment.  If  it  demanded 
the  attention  which  a  cabbage-plant  requires,  it  would  be 
given;  but  the  currant  belongs  to  that  small  class  of  creatures 
which  permit  themselves  to  be  used  when  wanted,  and 
snubbed,  neglected,  and  imposed  upon  at  other  times.  It 
is  known  that  the  bushes  will  manage  to  exist,  and  do  the 
very  best  they  can,  no  matter  how  badly  treated;  and  aver 
age  human  nature  has  ever  taken  advantage  of  such  traits, 
to  its  continuous  loss. 

The  patience  of  the  currant  is  due  perhaps  to  its  origin, 
for  it  grows  wild  round  the  northern  hemisphere,  its  chief 
haunts  being  the  dim,  cold,  damp  woods  of  the  high  lati- 


THE  CURRANT  91 

tudes.  You  may  tame,  modify,  and  vastly  change  anything 
possessing  life;  but  original  traits  are  scarcely  ever  wholly 
eradicated.  Therefore  the  natural  habitat  and  primal  quali 
ties  of  the  currant  indicate  the  true  lines  of  development,  its 
capabilities  and  limitations.  It  is  essentially  a  northern  fruit, 
requiring  coolness,  moisture,  and  alluvial  soils.  It  begins 
to  falter  and  look  homesick  even  in  New  Jersey;  and  one 
has  not  to  go  far  down  the  Atlantic  coast  to  pass  beyond 
the  range  of  its  suecessful  culture.  I  do  not  see  why  it 
should  not  thrive  much  further  south  on  the  northern 
slopes  of  the  mountains.  From  Philadelphia  northward, 
however,  except  on  light  dry  soils  and  in  sunny  exposures, 
there  is  no  reason  why  it  should  not  give  ample  returns  for 
the  attention  it  requires. 

I  shall  not  lay  stress  on  the  old,  well-known  uses  to 
which  this  fruit  is  put,  but  I  do  think  its  value  is  but  half 
appreciated.  People  rush  round  in  July  in  search  of  health: 
let  me  recommend  the  currant  cure.  If  any  one  is  languid, 
depressed  in  spirits,  inclined  to  headaches,  and  generally 
"out  of  sorts,"  let  him  finish  his  breakfast  daily  for  a 
month  with  a  dish  of  freshly  picked  currants.  He  will  soon 
almost  doubt  his  own  identity,  and  may  even  begin  to  think 
that  he  is  becoming  a  good  man.  He  will  be  more  gallant 
to  his  wife,  kinder  to  his  children,  friendlier  to  his  neigh- 
bors,  and  more  open-handed  to  every  good  cause.  Work 
will  soon  seem  play,  and  play  fun.  In  brief,  the  truth  of 
the  ancient  pun  will  be  verified,  that  "the  power  to  live 
a  good  life  depends  largely  upon  the  liver."  Out  upon  the 
nonsense  of  taking  medicine  .and  nostrums  during  the  cur 
rant-season  !  Let  it  be  taught  at  theological  seminaries  that 
the  currant  is  a  "means  of  grace."  It  is  a  corrective;  and 
that  is  what  average  humanity  most  needs. 

The  currant,  like  the  raspberry,  is  willing  to  keep  shady; 
but  only  because  it  is  modest.  It  is  one  of  the  fruits  that 
thrive  better  among  trees  than  in  too  dry  and  sunny  expo 
sures.  Therefore,  in  economizing  space  on  the  Home  Acre 
it  may  be  grown  among  smaller  trees,  or,  better  still,  on  the 

19— ROE— XI 


92  THE   HOME   ACRE 

northern  or  eastern  side  of  a  wall  or  hedge.  But  shade  is 
not  essential,  except  as  we  go  south;  then  the  requisites 
of  moisture  and  shelter  from  the  burning  rays  of  the  sun 
should  be  complied  with  as  far  as  possible.  In  giving  this 
and  kindred  fruits  partial  shade,  they  should  not  be  com 
pelled  to  contend  to  any  extent  with  the  roots  of  trees. 
This  will  ever  prove  an  unequal  contest.  No  fruit  can 
thrive  in  dense  shade,  or  find  sustenance  among  the  vora 
cious  roots  of  a  tree. 

Select,  therefore,  if  possible,  heavy,  deep,  moist,  yet 
well-drained  soil,  and  do  not  fear  to  make  and  keep  it  very 
rich.  If  you  are  restricted  to  sandy  or  gravelly  soils,  cor 
rect  their  defects  with  compost,  decayed  leaves  and  sods, 
muck,  manure  from  the  cow-stable,  and  other  fertilizers 
with  staying  rather  than  stimulating  qualities.  Either  by 
plowing  or  forking,  deepen  as  well  as  enrich  the  soil.  It 
is  then  ready  for  the  plants,  which  may  be  set  out  either 
in  the  fall  or  in  early  spring.  I  prefer  the  autumn — any 
time  after  the  leaves  have  fallen;  but  spring  answers  almost 
as  well,  while  buds  are  dormant,  or  partially  so.  It  should 
be  remembered  that  the  currant  starts  very  early,  and  is 
in  full  foliage  before  some  persons  are  fairly  wakened  to 
garden  interests.  It  would,  in  this  case,  be  better  to  wait 
until  October,  unless  the  plants  can  be  obtained  from  a 
neighbor  on  a  cloudy  day;  then  they  should  be  cut  back 
two-thirds  of  their  length  before  being  removed,  and  the 
transfer  made  as  quickly  as  possible.  Under  any  circum 
stances,  take  off  half  of  the  wood  from  the  plants  bought. 
This  need  not  be  thrown  away.  Every  cutting  of  young 
wood  six  inches  long  will  make  a  new  plant  in  a  single 
season.  All  that  is  needful  is  to  keep  the  wood  moist  until 
ready  to  put  it  in  the  ground,  or,  better  still,  a  cool,  damp 
place  in  the  garden  can  be  selected  at  once,  and  the  cuttings 
sunk  two-thirds  of  their  length  into  the  ground,  and  the  soil 
pressed  firm  around  them.  By  fall  they  will  have  a  good 
supply  of  roots,  and  by  the  following  autumn  be  ready  to 
be  set  out  wherever  you  wish  them  to  fruit 


THE   CURRANT  93 

Currant- bushes  may  be  planted  five  feet  apart  each  way, 
and  at  the  same  distance,  if  they  are  to  line  a  fence.  They 
should  be  sunk  a  few  inches  deeper  in  the  soil  than  they 
stood  before,  and  the  locality  be  such  as  to  admit  of  good 
culture.  The  soil  should  never  be  permitted  to  become 
hard,  weedy,  or  grass-grown.  As  a  rule,  I  prefer  two-year- 
old  plants,  while  those  of  one  year's  growth  answer  nearly 
as  well,  if  vigorous.  If  in  haste  for  fruit,  it  may  be  well  to 
get  three-year-old  plants,  unless  they  have  been  dwarfed 
and  enfeebled  by  neglect.  Subsequent  culture  consists 
chiefly  in  keeping  ths  soil  clean,  mellow,  rich,  and  there 
fore  moist.  I  have  named  the  best  fertilizers  for  the  cur 
rant;  but  if  the  product  of  the  horse-stable  is  employed, 
use  it  first  as  a  mulch.  It  will  thus  gradually  reach  the 
roots.  Otherwise  it  is  too  stimulating,  and  produces  a  ram 
pant  growth  of  wood  rather  than  fruit. 

Under  any  circumstances  this  tendency  to  produce  an 
undue  amount  of  wood  must  be  repressed  almost  as  rigor 
ously  as  in  the  grape-vine.  The  secret  of  successful  currant- 
culture  is  richness  beneath,  and  restriction  above.  English 
gardeners  are  said  to  have  as  complete  and  minute  systems 
of  pruning  and  training  currants  as  the  grape;  but  we  do 
not  seem  to  have  patience  for  such  detail.  Nor  do  I  regard 
it  as  necessary.  Our  object  is  an  abundant  supply  of  excel 
lent  fruit;  and  this  result  can  be  obtained  at  a  surprisingly 
small  outlay  of  time  and  money,  if  they  are  expended 
judiciously. 

The  art  of  trimming  a  currant-bush,  like  that  of  pruning 
a  grape-vine,  is  best  learned  by  observation  and  experience. 
One  can  give  principles  rather  than  lay  down  rules.  Like 
the  vine,  the  currant  tends  to  choke  itself  with  a  super 
abundance  of  wood,  which  soon  becomes  more  or  less 
barren.  This  is  truer  of  some  varieties  than  of  others; 
but  in  all  instances  the  judicious  use  of  the  pruning- knife 
doubles  the  yield.  In  view  of  the  supposition  that  the  lead 
ing  shoot  and  all  the  branches  were  shortened  in  one-half 
when  the  plant  was  set  out,  I  will  suggest  that  early  in  , 


94  THE   HOME   ACRE 

June  it  will  be  observed  that  much  more  wood  is  forming 
than  can  be  permitted  to  remain.  There  are  weak,  crowd 
ing  shoots  which  never  can  be  of  any  use.  If  these  are  cut 
out  at  this  time,  the  sap  which  would  go  to  mature  them 
will  be  directed  into  the  valuable  parts  of  the  forming  bush. 
Summer  pruning  prevents  misspent  force,  and  it  may  be 
kept  up  with  great  advantage  from  year  to  year.  This  is 
rarely  done,  however;  therefore  early  in  spring  the  bushes 
must  receive  a  good  annual  pruning,  and  the  long  shoots 
and  branches  be  cut  well  back,  so  as  to  prevent  naked 
reaches  of  wood.  Observe  a  very  productive  bush,  and 
you  will  see  that  there  are  many  points  abounding  in  little 
side- branches.  It  is  upon  these  that  the  fruit  is  chiefly 
borne.  A  bush  left  to  itself  is  soon  a  mass  of  long,  slender, 
almost  naked  stalks,  with  a  little  fruit  at  the  ends.  The 
ideal  bush  is  stocky,  open,  well  branched,  admitting  light, 
air,  and  sun  in  every  part.  There  is  no  crowding  and 
smothering  of  the  fruit  by  the  foliage.  But  few  clusters 
are  borne  on  very  young  wood,  and  when  this  grows  old 
and  black,  the  clusters  are  small.  Therefore  new  wood 
should*  always  be  coming  on  and  kept  well  cut  back,  so 
as  to  form  joints  and  side- branches;  and  as  other  parts  grow 
old  and  feeble  they  should  be  cut  out.  Observation  and  ex 
perience  will  teach  the  gardener  more  than  all  the  rules  that 
could  be  written,  for  he  will  perceive  that  he  must  prune 
each  bush  according  to  its  own  individuality. 

For  practical  purposes  the  bush  form  is  the  best  in  which 
to  grow  currants;  but  they  can  easily  be  made  to  form 
pretty  little  trees  with  tops  shaped  like  an  umbrella,  or 
any  other  form  we  desire.  For  instance,  I  found,  one 
autumn,  a  shoot  about  three  feet  long.  I  rubbed  off  all 
the  buds  except  the  terminal  one  and  three  or  four  just 
beneath  it,  then  sunk  the  lower  end  of  the  shoot  six  inches 
into  the  soil,  and  tied  the  part  above  the  ground  to  a  short 
stake.  The  following  spring  the  lower  end  took  root,  and 
the  few  buds  at  the  top  developed  into  a  small  bushy  head. 
Clumps  of  miniature  currant-trees  would  make  as  pretty  an 


THE   CURRANT  95 

ornament  for  the  garden  border  as  one  would  wish  to  see. 
It  should  be  remembered  that  there  is  a  currant  as  well  as 
an  apple  borer;  but  the  pests  are  not  very  numerous  or 
destructive,  and  such  little  trees  may  easily  be  grown 
by  the  hundred. 

Clean  culture  has  one  disadvantage  which  must  be 
guarded  against.  If  the  ground  under  bashes  is  loose, 
heavy  rains  will  sometimes  so  splash  up  the  soil  as  to 
muddy  the  greater  part  of  the  fruit.  I  once  suffered  seri 
ous  loss  in  this  way,  and  deserved  it;  for  a  little  grass 
mown  from  the  lawn,  or  any  other  litter  spread  under  and 
around  the  bushes  just  before  the  fruit  ripened,  would  have 
prevented  it.  It  will  require  but  a  very  few  minutes  to 
insure  a  clean  crop. 

I  imagine  that  if  these  pages  are  ever  read,  and  such 
advice  as  I  can  give  is  followed,  it  will  be  more  often  by 
the  mistress  than  the  master  of  the  Home  Acre.  I  address 
him,  but  quite  as  often  I  mean  her;  and  just  at  this  point 
I  am  able  to  give  "the  power  behind  the  throne"  a  useful 
hint.  Miss  Alcott,  in  her  immortal  "Little  Women,"  has 
given  an  instance  of  what  dire  results  may  follow  if  the 
"jelly  won't  jell."  Let  me  hasten  to  insure  domestic  peace 
by  telling  my  fair  reader  (who  will  also  be,  if  the  jelly  turns 
out  of  the  tumblers  tremulous  yet  firm,  a  gentle  reader)  that 
if  she  will  have  the  currants  picked  just  as  soon  as  they  are 
fully  ripe,  and  before  they  have  been  drenched  by  a  heavy 
rain,  she  will  find  that  the  jelly  will  "jell."  It  is  over 
ripe,  water-soaked  currants  that  break  up  families  and  de 
molish  household  gods.  Let  me  also  add  another  fact,  as 
true  as  it  is  strange,  that  white  currants  make  red  jelly; 
therefore  give  the  pearly  fruit  ample  space  in  the  garden. 

In  passing  to  the  consideration  of  varieties,  it  is  quite 
natural  in  this  connection  to  mention  the  white  sorts  first. 
I  know  that  people  are  not  yet  sufficiently  educated  to  de 
mand  white  currants  of  their  grocers;  but  the  home  garden 
is  as  much  beyond  the  grocer's  stall  as  the  home  is  better 
than  a  boarding- house.  There  is  no  reason  wfry  free  people 


96  THE   HOME   ACRE 

in  the  country  should  be  slaves  to  conventionalities,  preju 
dices,  and  traditions.  If  white  currants  are  sweeter,  more 
delicious  and  beautiful  than  the  red,  why,  so  they  are. 
Therefore  let  us  plant  them  abundantly. 

If  there  is  to  be  a  queen  among  the  currants,  the  White 
Grape  is  entitled  to  the  crown.  When  placed  upon  the 
table,  the  dish  appears  heaped  with  translucent  pearls. 
The  sharp  acid  of  the  red  varieties  is  absent,  and  you  feel 
that  if  you  could  live  upon  them  for  a  time,  your  blood 
would  grow  pure,  if  not  "blue." 

The  bush  producing  this  exquisite  fruit  is  like  an  un- 
eouth-looking  poet  who  gives  beauty  from  an  inner  life, 
but  disappoints  in  externals.  It  is  low- branching  and  un 
shapely,  and  must  be  forced  into  good  form — the  bush,  not 
the  poet — by  the  pruning-knife.  If  this  is  done  judiciously, 
no  other  variety  will  bear  more  profusely  or  present  a  fairer 
object  on  a  July  day. 

The  White  Dutch  has  the  well-known  characteristics  in 
growth  of  the  common  Red  Dutch  currant,  and  is  inferior 
only  to  the  White  Grape  in  size.  The  fruit  is  equally  trans 
parent,  beautiful,  mild,  and  agreeable  in  flavor,  while  the 
bush  is  enormously  productive,  and  shapely  in  form,  if 
properly  trained  and  fertilized. 

While  the  white  currants  are  such  favorites,  I  do  not 
undervalue  the  red.  Indeed,  were  I  restricted  to  one  va 
riety,  it  should  be  the  old  Dutch  Bed  of  our  fathers,  or, 
more  properly,  of  our  grandmothers.  For  general  house 
uses  I  do  not  think  it  has  yet  been  surpassed.  It  is  not  so 
mild  in  flavor  as  the  white  varieties,  but  there  is  a  richness 
and  sprightliness  in  its  acid  that  are  grateful  indeed  on  a 
sultry  day.  Mingled  with  the  white  berries,  it  makes  a 
beautiful  dish,  while  it  has  all  the  culinary  qualities  which 
the  housekeeper  can  desire.  If  the  bush  is  rigorously  pruned 
and  generously  enriched,  it  is  unsurpassed  in  productive 
ness,  and  the  fruit  approaches  very  nearly  to  the  Cherry 
currant  in  size. 

I  do  not  recommend  the  last-named  kind  for  the  home 


THE   CURRANT  97 

garden,  unless  large,  showy  fruit  counts  for  more  than 
flavor.  The  acid  of  the  Cherry  currant,  unless  very  ripe, 
is  harsh  and  watery.  At  best  it  never  acquires  an  agreeable 
mildness,  to  my  taste.  The  bushes  also  are  not  so  certainly 
productive,  and  usually  require  skilful  pruning  and  constant 
fertilizing  to  be  profitable.  For  the  market,  which  demands 
size  above  all  things,  the  Cherry  is  the  kind  to  grow;  but 
in  the  home  garden  flavor  and  productiveness  are  the  more 
important  qualities.  Fays  Prolific  is  a  new  sort  that  has 
been  very  highly  praised. 

The  Victoria  is  an  excellent  late  variety,  which,  if  planted 
in  a  sheltered  place,  prolongs  the  currant-season  well  into 
the  autumn.  Spurious  kinds  are  sold  under  this  name. 
The  true  Victoria  produces  a  pale-red  fruit  with  tapering 
clusters  or  racemes  of  berries.  This  variety,  with  the  three 
others  recommended,  gives  the  family  two  red  and  two 
white  kinds — all  that  are  needed.  Those  who  are  fond  of 
black  currants  can,  at  almost  any  nursery,  procure  the 
Black  Naples  and  Lee's  Prolific.  Either  variety  will  answer 
all  practical  purposes.  I  confess  they  are  not  at  all  to  my 
taste. 

From  the  currant  we  pass  on  naturally  to  the  gooseberry, 
for  in  origin  and  requirements  it  is  very  similar.  Both 
belong  to  the  Ribes  family  of  plants,  and  they  are  to  be 
cultivated  on  the  same  general  principles.  What  I  have 
written  in  regard  to  partial  shade,  cool,  sheltered  localities, 
rich,  heavy  soils,  good  culture,  and  especially  rigorous 
pruning,  applies  with  even  greater  force  to  this  fruit,  espe 
cially  if  we  endeavor  to  raise  the  foreign  varieties.  In  cul 
tivating  this  fruit  it  is  even  more  important  than  was  true 
of  raspberries  that  the  reader  should  distinguish  between 
the  native  and  foreign  species.  The  latter  are  so  inclined 
to  mildew  in  almost  every  locality  that  there  is  rarely  any 
certainty  of  satisfactory  fruit.  The  same  evil  pursues  the 
seedling  children  of  the  foreign  sorts,  and  I  have  never 
seen  a  hybrid  or  cross  between  the  English  and  native 
species  that  was  with  any  certainty  free  from  a  brown  dis- 


98  THE   HOME   ACRE 

figuring  rust  wholly  or  partially  enveloping  the  berries. 
Here  and  there  the  fruit  in  some  gardens  will  escape  year 
after  year;  again,  on  places  not  far  away,  the  blighting 
mildew  is  sure  to  appear  before  the  berries  are  fully  grown. 
Nevertheless,  the  foreign  varieties  are  so  fine  that  it  is  well 
to  give  them  a  fair  trial.  The  three  kinds  which  appear 
best  adapted  to  our  climate  are  Crown  Bob,  Eoaring  Lion, 
and  Whitesmith.  A  new  large  variety,  named  Industry,  is 
now  being  introduced,  and  if  half  of  what  is  claimed  for 
it  is  true,  it  is  worth  a  place  in  all  gardens. 

In  order  to  be  certain  of  clean,  fair  gooseberries  every 
year,  we  must  turn  to  our  native  species,  which  has  already 
given  us  several  good  varieties.  The  Downing  is  the  largest 
and  best,  and  the  Houghton  the  hardiest,  most  productive 
and  easily  raised.  When  we  remember  the  superb  fruit 
which  English  gardeners  have  developed  from  wild  kinds 
inferior  to  ours,  we  can  well  understand  that  the  true 
American  gooseberries  are  yet  to  be  developed.  In  my 
work  "Success  with  Small  Fruits"  those  who  are  interested 
in  this  fruit  will  find  much  fuller  treatment  than  is  war 
ranted  in  the  present  essay. 

Not  only  do  currants  and  gooseberries  require  similar 
treatment  and  cultivation,  but  they  also  have  a  common 
enemy  that  must  be  vigilantly  guarded  against,  or  the 
bushes  will  be  defoliated  in  many  localities  almost  before 
its  existence  is  known.  After  an  absence  of  a  few  days 
I  have  found  some  of  my  bushes  stripped  of  every  leaf. 
When  this  happens,  the  fruit  is  comparatively  worthless. 
Foliage  is  as  necessary  to  a  plant  as  are  lungs  to  a  man. 
It  is  not  essential  that  I  should  go  into  the  natural  history 
of  the  currant  worm  and  moth.  Having  once  seen  the 
yellowish-green  caterpillars  at  their  destructive  work,  the 
reader's  thoughts  will  not  revert  to  the  science  of  ento 
mology,  but  will  at  once  become  bloody  and  implacable. 
I  hasten  to  suggest  the  means  of  rescue  and  vengeance. 
The  moment  these  worms  appear,  be  on  your  guard,  for 
they  usually  spread  like  fire  in  stubble.  Procure  of  your 


THE   CURRANT  99 

druggist  white  hellebore,  scald  and  mix  a  tablespoonful  in 
a  bowl  of  hot  water,  and  then  pour  it  in  a  full  watering-can. 
This  gives  you  an  infusion  of  about  a  tablespoonful  to  an 
ordinary  pail  of  water  at  its  ordinarry  summer  temperature. 
Sprinkle  the  infected  bushes  with  this  as  often  as  there  is 
a  worm  to  be  seen.  I  have  never  failed  in  destroying  the 
pests  by  this  course.  It  should  be  remembered,  however, 
that  new  eggs  are  often  hatched  out  daily.  You  may  kill 
every  worm  to-day,  yet  find  plenty  on  the  morrow.  Vigi 
lance,  however,  will  soon  so  check  the  evil  that  your  cur 
rants  are  safe;  and  if  every  one  would  fight  the  pests,  they 
would  eventually  be  almost  exterminated.  The  trouble  is 
that,  while  you  do  your  duty,  your  next-door  neighbor  may 
grow  nothing  on  his  bushes  but  currant- worms.  Thus  the 
evil  is  continued,  and  even  increased,  in  spite  of  all  that 
you  can  do;  but  by  a  little  vigilance  and  the  use  of  helle 
bore  you  can  always  save  your  currants.  I  have  kept  my 
bushes  green,  luxuriant,  and  loaded  with  fruit  when,  at  a 
short  distance,  the  patches  of  careless  neighbors  were  ren 
dered  utterly  worthless.  Our  laws  but  half  protect  the 
birds,  the  best  insecticides,  and  there  is  no  law  to  prevent 
a  man  from  allowing  his  acres  to  be  the  breeding-place  of 
every  pest  prevailing. 

There  are  three  species  of  the  currant- borer,  and  their 
presence  is  indicated  by  yellow  foliage  and  shrivelling  fruit. 
The  only  remedy  is  to  cut  out  and  burn  the  affected  stems. 
These  pests  are  not  often  sufficiently  numerous  to  do  much 
harm. 

I  earnestly  urge  that  virulent  poisons  like  Paris  green, 
London  purple,  etc.,  never  be  used  on  fruit  or  edible  vege 
tables.  There  cannot  be  safety  in  this  course.  I  never 
heard  of  any  one  that  was  injured  by  white  hellebore,  used 
as  I  have  directed;  and  I  have  found  that  if  the  worms 
were  kept  off  until  the  fruit  began  to  ripen,  the  danger  was 
practically  over.  If  I  had  to  use  hellebore  after  the  fruit 
was  fit  to  use,  I  should  first  kill  the  worms,  and  then  cleanse 
the  bushes  thoroughly  by  spraying  them  with  clean  water. 


iOO  THE   HOME   ACRE 

In  treating  the  two  remaining  small  fruits,  blackberries 
and  strawberries,  we  pass  wholly  out  of  the  shade  and  away 
from  trees.  Sunshine  and  open  ground  are  now  required. 
Another  important  difference  can  also  be  mentioned,  revers 
ing  former  experience.  America  is  the  home  of  these  fruits. 
The  wild  species  of  the  blackberry  abroad  has  never,  as  far 
as  I  can  learn,  been  developed  into  varieties  worthy  of  cul 
tivation;  and  before  importations  from  North  and  South 
America  began,  the  only  strawberry  of  Europe  was  the 
Alpine,  with  its  slight  variations,  and  the  musky  Hautbois. 

I  do  not  know  whether  any  of  our  fine  varieties  of  black 
berries  are  cultivated  abroad,  but  I  am  perfectly  certain  that 
they  are  worthy  of  the  slight  attention  required  to  raise 
them  in  perfection  here. 

Like  the  blackcaps,  all  our  best  varieties  are  the  spon 
taneous  products  of  Nature,  first  discovered  growing  wild, 
and  transferred  to  the  garden.  The  blackberry  is  a  fruit 
that  takes  kindly  to  cultivation,  and  improves  under  it. 

The  proper  treatment  is  management  rather  than  culti 
vation  and  stimulation.  It  requires  a  sunny  exposure  and 
a  light,  warm  soil,  yet  not  so  dry  as  to  prevent  the  fruit 
from  maturing  into  juicy  berries.  If  possible,  set  the  black 
berries  off  by  themselves,  for  it  is  hard  to  prevent  the 
strong  roots  from  travelling  all  over  the  garden.  The 
blackberry  likes  a  rich,  moist,  mellow  soil,  and,  finding 
it,  some  varieties  will  give  you  canes  sixteen  feet  high. 
You  do  not  want  rank,  thorny  brambles,  however,  but 
berries.  Therefore  the  blackberry  should  be  put  where 
it  can  do  no  harm,  and,  by  a  little  judicious  repression, 
a  great  deal  of  good.  A  gravelly  or  sandy  knoll,  with  a 
chance  to  mow  all  round  the  patch,  is  the  best  place.  The 
blackberry  needs  a  deep,  loose  soil  rather  than  a  rich  one. 
Then  the  roots  will  luxuriate  to  unknown  depths,  the  wood 
ripen  thoroughly,  and  the  fruit  be  correspondingly  abundant. 

Let  the  rows  be  six  feet  apart;  set  out  the  plants  in  the 
fall,  if  possible,  or  early  spring;  put  two  plants  in  the  hills, 
which  may  be  four  feet  apart.  If  the  ground  is  very  poor, 


THE    CURRANT  101 

give  the  young  plants  a  shovelful  of  old  compost,  decayed 
leaves,  eic.  Any  fertilizer  will  answer,  so  that  it  is  spread 
just  over  the  roots  to  give  the  plants  a  good  send-off. 

As  a  rule,  complete  success  in  blackberry  culture  con 
sists  in  a  little  judicious  work  performed  in  May,  June,  and 
July.  The  plants,  having  been  set  out  as  I  have  advised  m 
the  case  of  raspberries,  throw  up  the  first  season  strong 
green  shoots.  When  these  shoots  are  three  feet  high,  pinch 
off  the  top,  so  as  to  stop  upward  growth.  The  result  of  this 
is  that  branches  start  on  every  side,  and  the  plant  forms 
a  low,  stocky,  self-supporting  bush,  which  will  be  loaded 
with  fruit  the  following  season. 

The  second  year  the  plants  in  the  hill  will  send  up 
stronger  canes,  and  there  will  be  plenty  of  sprouts  or 
suckers  in  the  intervening  spaces.  When  very  young, 
these  useless  sprouts  can  be  pulled  out  with  the  least  pos 
sible  trouble.  Left  to  mature,  they  make  a  thorny  wilder 
ness  which  will  cause  bleeding  hands  and  faces  when  at 
tacked,  and  add  largely  to  the  family  mending.  That 
which  a  child  could  do  as  play  when  the  suckers  were 
just  coming  through  the  ground,  is  now  a  formidable  task 
for  any  man.  In  early  summer  you  can  with  the  utmost 
ease  keep  every  useless  blackberry  sprout  from  growing. 
More  canes,  also,  will  usually  start  from  the  hill  than  are 
needed.  Leave  but  three  strong  shoots,  and  this  year  pinch 
them  back  as  soon  as  they  are  four  feet  high,  thus  pro 
ducing  three  stocky,  well-branched  bushes,  which  in  shel 
tered  places  will  be  self-supporting.  Should  there  be  the 
slightest  danger  of  their  breaking  down  with  their  load 
of  fruit,  tie  them  to  stakes  by  all  means.  I  do  not  believe 
in  that  kind  of  economy  which  tries  to  save  a  penny  at  the 
risk  of  a  dollar. 

I  believe  that  better  and  larger  fruit  is  always  secured 
by  shortening  in  the  side  branches  one-third  of  their  length 
in  spring.  Fine  varieties  like  the  Kittatinny  are  not  en 
tirely  hardy  in  all  localities.  The  snow  will  protect  the 
lower  branches,  and  the  upper  ones  can  usually  be  kept 


102  THE   HOME   ACRE 

uninjured  by  throwing  over  them  some  very  light  litter, 
like  old  pea  or  bean  vines,  etc. — nothing  heavy  enough  to 
break  them  down.  As  soon  as  the  old  canes  are  through 
bearing,  they  should  be  cut  out.  If  the  blackberry  patch 
has  been  left  to  its  own  wild  will,  there  is  nothing  left  for 
us  but  to  attack  it,  well-gloved,  in  April,  with  the  pruning- 
shears,  and  cut  out  everything  except  three  or  four  young 
canes  in  the  hill.  These  will  probably  be  tall,  slender,  and 
branchless,  therefore  comparatively  unproductive.  In  order 
to  have  any  fruit  at  all,  we  must  shorten  them  one-third, 
and  tie  them  to  stakes.  It  thus  may  be  clearly  seen  that 
with  blackberries  "a  stitch  in  time"  saves  almost  ninety- 
nine.  Keep  out  coarse  weeds  and  grass,  and  give  fertilizers 
only  when  the  plants  show  signs  of  feebleness  and  lack  of 
nutrition. 

A  rust  similar  to  that  which  attacks  the  black-cap  is 
almost  the  only  disease  we  have  to  contend  with.  The 
remedy  is  the  same — extirpation  of  the  plant,  root  and 
branch. 

After  testing  a  great  many  kinds,  I  recommend  the  three 
following  varieties,  ripening  in  succession  for  the  family — 
the  Early  Harvest,  Snyder,  and  Kittatinny.  These  all  pro 
duce  rich,  high-flavored  berries,  and,  under  the  treatment 
suggested,  will  prove  hardy  in  nearly  all  localities.  This 
fruit  is  not  ripe  as  soon  as  it  is  black,  and  it  is  rarely  left 
on  the  bushes  until  the  hard  core  in  the  centre  is  mellowed 
by  complete  maturity.  I  have  found  that  berries  picked  in 
the  evening  and  stood  in  a  cool  place  were  in  excellent 
condition  for  breakfast.  To  have  them  in  perfection,  how 
ever,  they  must  be  so  ripe  as  to  drop  into  the  basket  at  the 
slightest  touch;  then,  as  Donald  Mitchell  says,  they  are 
"bloated  bubbles  of  forest  honey." 

I  fancy  the  reader  is  as  impatient  to  reach  the  strawberry 
as  I  am  myself.  "Doubtless  God  could  have  made  a  better 
berry" — but  I  forbear.  This  saying  has  been  quoted  by  the 
greater  part  of  the  human  race,  and  attributed  to  nearly 
every  prominent  man,  from  Adam  to  Mr.  Beecher.  There 


THE   CURRANT  103 

are  said  to  be  unfortunates  whom  the  strawberry  poisons. 
The  majority  of  us  feel  as  if  we  could  attain  Methuselah's 
•  age  if  we  had  nothing  worse  to  contend  with.  Praising  the 
strawberry  is  like  "painting  the  lily;"  therefore  let  us  give 
our  attention  at  once  to  the  essential  details  of  its  successful 
culture. 

As  we  have  intimated  before,  this  fruit  as  we  find  it  in 
our  gardens,  even  though  we  raise  foreign  kinds,  came 
originally  from  America.  The  two  great  species,  Fragaria 
chilensis,  found  on  the  Pacific  slope  from  Oregon  to  Chili, 
and  Fragaria  virginiana,  growing  wild  in  all  parts  of  North 
America  east  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  are  the  sources  of 
all  the  fine  varieties  that  have  been  named  and  cultivated. 
The  Alpine  strawberry  (Fragaria  vesca),  which  grows  wild 
throughout  the  northern  hemisphere,  does  not  appear  capa 
ble  of  much  variation  and  development  under  cultivation. 
Its  seeds,  sown  under  all  possible  conditions,  reproduce  the 
parent  plant.  Foreign  gardeners  eventually  learned,  how 
ever,  that  seeds  of  the  Chili  and  Virginia  strawberry  pro 
duced  new  varieties  which  were  often  much  better  than 
their  parents.  As  time  passed,  and  more  attention  was 
drawn  to  this  subject,  superb  varieties  were  originated 
abroad,  many  of  them  acquiring  a  wide  celebrity.  In  this- 
case,  as  has  been  true  of  nearly  all  other  fruits,  our  nursery 
men  and  fruit-growers  first  looked  to  Europe  for  improved 
varieties  Horticulturists  were  slow  to  learn  that  in  our 
own  native  species  were  the  possibilities  of  the  best  success. 
The  Chili  strawberry,  brought  directly  from  the  Pacific 
coast  to  the  East,  is  not  at  home  in  our  climate,  and  is  still 
more  unfitted  to  contend  with  it  after  generations  of  culture 
in  Europe.  Even  our  hardier  Virginia  strawberry,  coming 
back  to  us  from  England  after  many  years  of  high  stimu 
lation  in  a  moist,  mild  climate,  is  unequal  to  the  harsher 
conditions  of  life  here.  They  are  like  native  Americans 
who  have  lived  and  been  pampered  abroad  so  long  that 
they  find  this  country  "quite  too  rude,  you  know — beastly 
climate.''  Therefore,  in  the  choice  varieties,  and  in  devel- 


104  THE   HOME   ACRE 

oping  new  ones,  the  nearer  we  can  keep  to  vigorous  strains 
of  our  own  hardy  Virginia  species  the  better.  From  it  have 
proceeded  and  will  continue  to  come  the  finest  kinds  that 
can  be  grown  east  of  the  Eockies.  Nevertheless,  what  was 
said  of  foreign  raspberries  is  almost  equally  true  of  Euro 
pean  strawberries  like  the  Triomphe  de  Gand  and  Jucunda, 
and  hybrids  like  the  Wilder.  In  localities  where  they  can 
be  grown,  their  beauty  and  fine  flavor  repay  for  the  high 
culture  and  careful  winter  protection  required.  But  they 
can  scarcely  be  made  to  thrive  on  light  soils  or  very  far 
to  the  south. 

So  many  varieties  are  offered  for  sale  that  the  question 
of  choice  is  a  bewildering  one.  I  have  therefore  sought  to 
meet  it,  as  before,  by  giving  the  advice  of  those  whose  opin 
ions  are  well  entitled  to  respect. 

Dr.  Hexamer,  who  has  had  great  and  varied  experience, 
writes  as  follows:  "A  neighbor  of  mine  who  has  for  years 
bought  nearly  every  new  strawberry  when  first  introduced, 
has  settled  on  the  Duchess  and  Cumberland  as  the  only 
varieties  he  will  grow  in  the  future,  and  thinks  it  not  worth 
while  to  seek  for  something  better.  Confined  to  two  varie 
ties,  a  more  satisfactory  selection  could  scarcely  be  made. 
But  you  want  six  or  seven,  either  being,  I  think,  about 
the  right  number  for  the  home  garden.  I  will  give  them 
in  the  order  of  desirability  according  to  my  judgment — 
Cumberland,  Charles  Downing,  Duchess,  Mount  Vernon, 
Warren,  Sharpless,  Jewell." 

The  selection  which  places  the  Cumberland  Triumph  at 
the  head  of  the  list  is  but  another  proof  how  kinds  differ 
under  varied  conditions.  On  my  place  this  highly  praised 
sort  is  but  moderately  productive  and  not  high-flavored, 
although  the  fruit  is  very  large  and  handsome.  I  regard 
the  list,  however,  as  a  most  excellent  one  for  most  localities. 

The  Hon.  Marshall  P.  Wilder's  choice  for  the  latitude  of 
Massachusetts:  "Charles  Downing,  Wilder,  Hervey  Davis, 
Sharpless,  Cumberland,  Kentucky.  Jewell  is  very  promis 
ing."  A.  S.  Fuller,  for  latitude  of  New  York:  "Charles 


THE    CURRANT  105 

Downing,  Sharpless,  Miner's  Prolific,  Wilson's  Albany, 
Champion."  P,  C.  Berckmans,  for  the  latitude  of  Georgia: 
"Wilson,  Sharpless,  Charles  Downing,  Triomphe  de  Gand, 
Glendale. "  The  Hon.  Norman  J.  Colman's  choice  for  Mis 
souri  and  the  West:  "Crescent,  Captain  Jack,  Cumberland, 
Champion,  Hart's  Minnesota,  Cornelia." 

If  I  gave  a  hundred  other  lists,  no  two  of  them  probably 
would  agree  in  all  respects.  Mr.  Downing  often  said  to  me, 
"Soil,  climate,  and  locality  make  greater  differences  with 
the  strawberry  than  with  any  other  fruit."  This  is  far 
more  true  of  some  varieties  than  others.  I  believe  that 
the  excellent  kind  named  after  Mr.  Downing,  if  given 
proper  treatment,  will  do  well  almost  anywhere  on  the 
continent.  It  will  be  noted  that  it  is  on  all  the  lists  except 
one.  I  should  place  it  at  the  head  of  garden  strawberries. 
It  is  a  kind  that  will  endure  much  neglect,  and  it  responds 
splendidly  to  generous,  sensible  treatment.  Its  delicious 
flavor  is  its  chief  recommendation,  as  it  should  be  that  of 
every  berry  for  the  home  garden. 

I  have  tested  many  hundreds  of  kinds,  and  have  grown 
scores  and  scores  that  were  so  praised  when  first  sent  out 
that  the  novice  might  be  tempted  to  dig  up  and  throw  away 
everything  except  the  wonderful  novelty  pressed  upon  his 
attention.  There  is  one  quiet,  effective  way  of  meeting  all 
this  heralding  and  laudation,  and  that  is  to  make  trial  beds. 
For  instance,  1  have  put  out  as  many  as  seventy  kinds  at 
nearly  the  same  time,  and  grown  them  under  precisely  the 
same  conditions.  Some  of  the  much- vaunted  new-comers 
were  found  to  be  old  varieties  re- named;  others,  although 
sold  at  high  prices  and  asserted  to  be  prodigies,  were  seen 
to  be  comparatively  worthless  when  growing  by  the  side 
of  good  old  standard  sorts;  the  majority  never  rose  above 
mediocrity  under  ordinary  treatment;  but  now  and  then 
one,  like  the  Sharpless,  fulfilled  the  promises  made  for  it. 

In  my  next  chapter  I  shall  venture  to  recommend  those 
varieties  which  my  own  experience  and  observation  have 
shown  to  be  best  adapted  to  various  soils  and  localities,  and 


106  THE   HOME   ACRE 

shall  also  seek  to  prove  that  proper  cultivation  has  more  to 
do  with  success  than  even  the  selection  of  favored  kinds. 

Nor  would  I  seek  to  dissuade  the  proprietor  of  the  Home 
Acre  from  testing  the  many  novelties  offered.  He  will  be 
sure  to  get  a  fair  return  in  strawberries,  and  to  his  interest 
in  his  garden  will  add  the  pleasure  and  anticipation  which 
accompany  uncertain  experiment.  In  brief,  he  has  found 
an  innocent  form  of  gambling,  which  will  injure  neither 
pocket  nor  morals.  In  slow-maturing  fruits  we  cannot 
afford  to  make  mistakes;  in  strawberries,  one  prize  out  of 
a  dozen  blanks  repays  for  everything. 


STRAWBERRIES  107 


CHAPTEE   VII 

STRAWBERRIES 

THERE  is  a  very  general  impression  that  light,  dry, 
sandy  soils  are  the  best  for  the  strawberry.     Just 
the  reverse  of  this  is  true.    In  its  desire  for  moisture 
it  is  almost  an  aquatic  plant.     Experienced  horticulturists 
have  learned  to  recognize  this  truth,  which  the  Hon.  Mar 
shall  P.  Wilder  has   suggested  in  the   following   piquant 
manner:  "In  the  first  place,  the  strawberry's  chief  need  is 
a  great  deal  of  water.     In  the  second  place,  it  needs  more 
water.     In  the  third  place,  I  think  I  should  give  it  a  great 
deal  more  water." 

While  emphasizing  this  truth  the  reader  should  at  the 
same  time  be  warned  against  land  whereon  water  stands 
above  the  surface  in  winter  and  spring,  or  stagnates  beneath 
the  surface  at  any  time.  Moisture  is  essential  to  the  best 
results ;  good  drainage  is  equally  so.  The  marvellous  crops 
of  strawberries  raised  in  California  under  well-directed  sys 
tems  of  irrigation  should  teach  us  useful  lessons.  The 
plants,  instead  of  producing  a  partially  developed  crop 
within  a  few  brief  days,  continue  in  bearing  through  weeks 
and  months.  It  may  often  be  possible  to  supply  abundantly 
on  the  Home  Acre  this  vital  requirement  of  moisture,  and 
I  shall  refer  to  this  point  further  on. 

My  first  advice  in  regard  to  strawberries  is  to  set  them 
out  immediately  almost  anywhere  except  upon  land  so  re 
cently  in  grass  that  the  sod  is  still  undecayed.  This  course 
is  better  than  not  to  have  the  fruit  at  all,  or  to  wait  for  it. 
A  year  without  strawberries  is  a  lost  year  in  one  serious 
respect.  While  there  is  a  wide  difference  between  what 


108  THE   HOME   ACRE 

plants  can  do  under  unfavorable  conditions  and  what  they 
can  be  made  to  do  when  their  needs  are  fully  met,  they  will 
probably  in  any  event  yield  a  fair  supply  of  delicious  fruit. 
Secure  this  as  soon  as  possible.  At  the  same  time  remem 
ber  that  a  plant  of  a  good  variety  is  a  genius  capable  of 
wonderful  development.  In  ordinary  circumstances  it  is 
like  the  "mute,  inglorious"  poets  whose  enforced  limita 
tions  were  lamented  by  the  poet  Gray;  but  when  its  innate 
powers  and  gifts  are  fully  nourished  it  expands  into  sur 
prising  proportions,  sends  up  hundreds  of  flowers,  which 
are  followed  by  ruby  gems  of  fruit  whose  exquisite  flavor 
is  only  surpassed  by  its  beauty.  No  such  concentrated  am 
brosia  ever  graced  the  feasts  of  the  Olympian  gods,  for  they 
were  restricted  to  the  humble  Fragaria  vesca,  or  Alpine 
species.  In  discovering  the  New  World,  Columbus  also 
discovered  the  true  strawberry,  and  died  without  the  knowl 
edge  of  this  result  of  his  achievement. 

I  can  imagine  the  expression  on  the  faces  of  those  who 
buy  the  "sour,  crude,  half-ripe  "Wilsons,"  against  which  the 
poet  Bryant  inveighed  so  justly.  The  market  is  flooded  with 
this  fruit  because  it  bears  transportation  about  as  well  as 
would  marbles.  Yes,  they  are  strawberries;  choke-pears 
and  Seckels  belong  to  the  same  species.  There  is  truth 
enough  in  my  exaggeration  to  warrant  the  assertion  that 
if  we  would  enjoy  the  possible  strawberry,  we  must  raise 
it  ourselves,  and  pick  it  when  fully  matured — ready  for  the 
table,  and  not  for  market.  Then  any  man's  garden  can 
furnish  something  better  than  was  found  in  Eden. 

Having  started  a  strawberry-patch  without  loss  of  time 
wherever  it  is  handiest,  we  can  now  give  our  attention  to 
the  formation  of  an  ideal  bed.  In  this  instance  we  must 
shun  the  shade  of  trees  above,  and  their  roots  beneath. 
The  land  should  be  open  to  the  sky,  and  the  sun  free  to 
practice  his  alchemy  on  the  fruit  the  greater  part  of  the 
day.  The  most  favorable  soil  is  a  sandy  loam,  verging 
toward  clay;  and  it  should  have  been  under  cultivation 
sufficiently  long  to  destroy  ali  roots  of  grass  and  perennial 


STRAWBERRIES  109 

weeds.  Put  on  the  fertilizer  with  a  free  hand.  If  it  is  barn 
yard  manure,  the  rate  of  sixty  tons  to  the  acre  is  not  in 
excess.  A  strawberry  plant  has  a  large  appetite  and  excel 
lent  digestion.  It  prefers  decidedly  manure  from  the  cow- 
stable,  though  that  from  the  horse-stable  answers  very  well; 
but  it  is  not  advisable  to  incorporate  it  with  the  soil  in  its 
raw,  unfermented  state,  and  then  to  plant  immediately. 
The  ground  can  scarcely  be  too  rich  for  strawberries,  but 
it  may  easily  be  overheated  and  stimulated.  In  fertilizing, 
ever  keep  in  mind  the  two  great  requisites — moisture  and 
coolness.  Manure  from  the  horse-stable,  therefore,  is  almost 
doubled  in  value  as  well  as  bulk  if  composted  with  leaves, 
muck,  or  sods,  and  allowed  to  decay  before  being  used. 

Next  to  enriching  the  soil,  the  most  important  step  is 
to  deepen  it.  If  a  plow  is  used,  sink  it  to  the  beam,  and 
run  it  twice  in  a  furrow  If  a  lifting  subsoil-plow  can  fol 
low,  all  the  better.  Strawberry  roots  have  been  traced  two 
feet  below  the  surface. 

If  the  situation  of  the  plot  does  not  admit  the  use  of  a 
plow,  let  the  gardener  begin  at  one  side  and  trench  the  area 
to  at  least  the  depth  of  eighteen  inches,  taking  pains  to  mix 
the  surface,  subsoil,  and  fertilizer  evenly  and  thoroughly. 
A  small  plot  thus  treated  will  yield  as  much  as  one  three 
or  four  times  as  large.  One  of  the  chief  advantages  of  thus 
deepening  the  soil  is  that  the  plants  are  insured  against 
their,  worst  enemy — drought.  How  often  1  have  seen  beds 
in  early  June  languishing  for  moisture,  the  fruit  trusses 
lying  on  the  ground,  fainting  under  their  burden,  and  the 
berries  ripening  prematurely  into  little  more  than  diminu 
tive  collections  of  seeds!  When  ground  has  been  deepened 
as  I  have  said,  the  drought  must  be  almost  unparalleled 
to  arrest  the  development  of  the  fruit.  Even  in  the  most 
favorable  seasons,  hard,  shallow  soils  give  but  a  brief  period 
of  strawberries;  the  fruit  ripens  all  at  once,  and  although 
the  first  berries  may  be  of  good  size,  the  later  ones  dwindle 
until  they  are  scarcely  larger  than  peas.  Be  sure  to  have  a 
deep,  mellow  soil  beneath  the  plants. 


110  THE  HOME   ACRE 

Such  a  bed  can  be  made  in  either  spring  or  fall — indeed, 
at  any  time  when  the  soil  is  free  from  frost,  and  neither  too 
wet  nor  dry.  1  do  not  believe  in  preparing  and  fertilizing 
ground  during  a  period  of  drought. 

We  will  suppose  the  work  has  been  done  in  the  spring, 
as  early  as  the  earth  was  dry  enough  to  crumble  freely,  and 
that  the  surface  of  the  bed  is  smooth,  mellow,  and  ready 
for  the  plants.  Stretch  a  garden  line  down  the  length  of 
the  plot  two  feet  from  the  outer  edge,  and  set  the  plants 
along  the  line  one  foot  apart  from  each  other.  Let  the  roots 
be  spread  out,  not  buried  in  a  mat,  the  earth  pressed  firmly 
against  them,  and  the  crown  of  the  plant  be  exactly  even 
with  the  surface  of  the  soil,  which  should  also  be  pressed 
closely  around  it  with  the  fingers.  This  may  seem  minute 
detail,  yet  much  dismal  experience  proves  it  to  be  essen 
tial.  I  have  employed  scores  of  men,  and  the  great  majority 
at  first  would  either  bury  the  crowns  out  of  sight,  or  else 
leave  part  of  the  roots  exposed,  and  the  remainder  so  loose 
in  the  soil  that  a  sharp  gale  would  blow  the  plants  away. 
There  is  no  one  so  economical  of  time  as  the  hired  man 
whose  time  is  paid  for.  He  is  ever  bent  on  saving  a  minute 
or  half-minute  in  this  kind  of  work.  On  one  occasion  I  had 
to  reset  a  good  part  of  an  acr^  on  which  my  men  had  saved 
time  in  planting.  If  1  had  asked  them  to  save  the  plants  in 
the  year  of  '86,  they  might  have  "struck." 

The  first  row  having  been  set  out,  I  advise  that  the  line 
be  moved  forward  three  feet.  This  would  make  the  rows 
three  feet  apart — not  too  far  in  ground  prepared  as  de 
scribed,  and  in  view  of  the  subsequent  method  of  cultiva 
tion.  The  bed  may  therefore  be  filled  up  in  this  ratio,  the 
plants  one  foot  apart  in  the  row,  and  the  rows  three  feet 
apart.  The  next  point  in  my  system,  for  the  kind  of  soil 
named  (for  light,  sandy  soils  another  plan  will  be  indi 
cated),  is  to  regard  each  plant  as  an  individual  that  is  to 
be  developed  to  the  utmost.  Of  course  only  young  plants 
of  the  previous  season's  growth  should  be  used.  If  a  plant 
has  old,  woody,  black  roots,  throw  it  away.  Plants  set  out 


STRAWBERRIES  111 

in  April  will  begin  to  blossom  in  May.  These  buds  and 
blossoms  should  be  picked  off  ruthlessly  as  soon  as  they 
appear.  Never  does  avarice  overreach  itself  more  com 
pletely  than  when  plants  are  permitted  to  bear  the  same 
season  in  which  they  are  set  out.  The  young,  half-estab 
lished  plant  is  drained  of  its  vitality  in  producing  a  little 
imperfect  fruit;  yet  this  is  permitted  even  by  farmers  who 
would  hold  up  their  hands  at  the  idea  of  harnessing  a  colt 
to  a  plow. 

The  plants  do  not  know  anything  about  our  purpose 
in  regard  to  them.  They  merely  seek  to  follow  the  law 
of  Nature  to  propagate  themselves,  first  by  seeds  which, 
strictly  speaking,  are  the  fruit,  and  then  by  runners.  These 
slender,  tendril- like  growths  begin  to  appear  early  in  sum 
mer,  and  if  left  unchecked  will  mat  the  ground  about  the 
parent  with  young  plants  by  late  autumn.  .If  we  wish  plants, 
let  them  grow  by  all  means;  but  if  fruit  is  our  object,  why 
should  we  let  them  grow?  "Because  nearly  every  one 
seems  to  do  it,"  would  be,  perhaps,  the  most  rational 
answer.  This  is  a  mistake,  for  many  are  beginning  to  take 
just  the  opposite  course  even  when  growing  strawberries 
by  the  acre. 

Let  us  fix  our  attention  on  a  single  plant.  It  has  a  cer 
tain  amount  of  root  pasturage  and  space  in  which  to  grow. 
Since  it  is  not  permitted  to  produce  an  indefinite  number  of 
young  plants,  it  begins  to  develop  itself.  The  soil  is  rich, 
the  roots  are  busy,  and  there  must  be  an  outlet.  The  orig 
inal  plant  cannot  form  others,  and  therefore  begins  to  pro 
duce  fruit-crowns  for  the  coming  year.  All  the  sap,  all 
the  increasing  power  of  root  and  foliage,  are  directed  to 
preparation  for  fruit.  In  brief,  we  have  got  the  plant 
in  traces;  it  is  pulling  in  the  direction  we  wish:  it  will 
eventually  deliver  a  load  of  berries  which  would  surprise 
those  who  trust  simply  to  Nature  unguided. 

Some  one  may  object  that  this  is  a  troublesome  and  ex 
pensive  way  of  growing  strawberries.  Do  not  the  facts  in 
the  case  prove  the  reverse  ?  A  plant  restricted  to  a  single 


112  THE   HOME   ACRE 

root  can  be  hoed  and  worked  around  like  a  hill  of  corn 
or  a  currant-bush.  With  comparatively  little  trouble  the 
ground  between  the  rows  can  be  kept  clean  and  mellow. 
Under  the  common  system,  which  allows  the  runners  to 
interlace  and  mat  the  ground,  you  soon  have  an  almost 
endless  amount  of  hand-weeding  to  do,  and  even  this  fails 
if  white  clover,  sorrel,  and  certain  grasses  once  get  a  start. 
The  system  I  advocate  forbids  neglect;  the  runners  must 
be  clipped  off  as  fast  as  they  appear,  and  they  continue  to 
grow  from  June  till  frost;  but  the  actual  labor  of  the  year 
is  reduced  to  a  minimum.  A  little  boy  or  girl  could  keep 
a  large  bed  clipped  by  the  occasional  use  of  a  shears  or 
knife  before  breakfast;  and  if  the  ground  between  the 
plants  is  free  of  runners,  it  can  be  hoed  over  in  an  hour. 
Considering,  therefore,  merely  the  trouble  and  expense,  the 
single-plant  system  has  the  facts  in  its  favor.  But  our  ob 
ject  is  not  to  grow  strawberry  plants  with  the  least  trouble, 
but  to  have  strawberries  of  the  largest  and  finest  quality. 

In  addition  to  ease  and  thoroughness  of  cultivation,  there 
are  other  important  advantages.  The  single  narrow  row  of 
plants  is  more  easily  protected  against  winter's  frosts. 
Light,  strawy  manure  from  the  horse- stable  serves  well 
for  this  purpose;  but  it  should  be  light  and  free  from  heat. 
1  have  seen  beds  destroyed  by  too  heavy  a  covering  of 
chunky,  rank  manure.  It  is  not  our  purpose  to  keep  the 
beds  and  plants  from  freezing,  but  from  alternately  freezing 
and  thawing.  If  snow  fell  on  the  bed  in  December  and 
lasted  till  April,  no  other  protection  would  be  needed. 
Nature  in  this  latitude  has  no  sympathy  for  the  careless 
man.  During  the  winter  of  1885,  in  January,  and  again  in 
February  and  March,  the  ground  was  bare,  unprotected 
plants  were  badly  frozen,  and  in  many  instances  lifted 
partly  out  of  the  ground  by  midday  thawing  and  night 
freezing.  The  only  safe  course  is  to  cover  the  rows  thor 
oughly,  but  not  heavily,  early  in  December.  It  then  light 
stable-manure  is  not  at  hand,  leaves,  old  bean-vines,  or  any 
dry  refuse  from  the  garden  not  containing  injurious  seeds 


8TRA  WBERRIES  113 

will  answer.  Do  not  employ  asparagus-tops,  which  contain 
seed.  Of  course  we  want  this  vegetable,  but  not  in  the 
strawberry  bed.  Like  some  persons  out  of  their  proper 
sphere,  asparagus  may  easily  become  a  nuisance;  and  it 
will  dispossess  other  growths  of  their  rights  and  places  as 
serenely  as  a  Knight  of  Labor.  The  proper  balance  must 
be  kept  in  the  garden  as  well  as  in  society;  and  therefore 
it  is  important  to  cover  our  plants  with  something  that  will 
not  speedily  become  a  usurper.  Let  it  be  a  settled  point, 
then,  that  the  narrow  rows  must  be  covered  thoroughly  out 
of  sight  with  some  light  material  which  will  not  rest  with 
smothering  weight  on  the  plants  or  leave  among  them  in 
jurious  seeds.  Light  stable-manure  is  often  objected  to  for 
the  reason  that  employing  it  is  like  sowing  the  ground  with 
grass-seed.  If  the  plants  had  been  allowed  to  grow  in 
matted  beds,  I  would  not  use  this  material  for  a  winter 
covering,  unless  it  had  been  allowed  to  heat  sufficiently  to 
destroy  the  grass  and  clover  seed  contained  in  it.  I  have 
seen  matted  beds  protected  with  stable-manure  that  were 
fit  to  mow  by  June,  the  plants  and  fruit  having  been  over 
run  with  grass.  No  such  result  need  follow  if  the  plants 
are  cultivated  in  a  single  line,  for  then  the  manure  can  be 
raked  off  in  early  spring — first  of  April  in  our  latitude — 
and  the  ground  cultivated.  There  is  a  great  advantage  in 
employing  light  manure  if  the  system  I  advocate  is  fol 
lowed,  for  the  melting  snows  and  rains  carry  the  richness 
of  the  fertilizer  to  the  roots,  and  winter  protection  serves 
a  double  purpose. 

We  will  now  consider  the  proper  management  for  the 
second  year,  when  a  full  crop  should  be  yielded.  I  know 
that  many  authorities  frown  upon  cultivation  during  the 
second  spring,  before  plants  bear  their  fruit.  1  can  not  agree 
with  this  view,  except  in  regard  to  very  light  soils,  and 
look  upon  it  as  a  relic  of  the  old  theory  that  sandy  land 
was  the  best  for  strawberries.  Take  the  soil  under  con 
sideration,  a  sandy  loam,  for  instance.  After  the  frost  is 
out,  the  earth  settled,  and  the  winter  covering  raked  off, 


114  THE   ROME   ACRE 

the  soil  under  the  spring  sun  grows  hard,  and  by  June  is 
almost  as  solid  as  a  roadbed.  Every  one  knows  that  land 
in  such  condition  suffers  tenfold  more  severely  from 
drought  than  if  it  were  light  and  mellow  from  cultiva 
tion.  Perennial  weeds  that  sprouted  late  in  the  fall  or 
early  spring  get  a  start,  and  by  fruiting- time  are  rampant. 
I  do  advocate  early  spring  cultivation,  and  by  it  I  almost 
double  my  crop,  while  at  the  same  time  maintaining  a  mas 
tery  over  the  weeds. 

As  soon  as  the  severe  frosts  are  over,  in  April,  I  rake 
the  coarsest  of  the  stable-manure  from  ihe  plants,  leaving 
the  finer  and  decayed  portions  as  a  fertilizer.  Then,  when 
the  ground  is  dry  enough  to  work,  I  have  a  man  weed  out 
the  rows,  and  if  there  are  vacant  spaces,  fill  in  the  rows 
with  young  plants.  The  man  then  forks  the  ground  lightly 
between  the  rows,  and  stirs  the  surface  merely  among  the 
plants.  Thus  all  the  hard,  sodden  surface  is  loosened  or 
scarified,  and  opened  to  the  reception  of  air  and  light,  dew 
and  rain.  The  man  is  charged  emphatically  that  in  this 
cultivation  he  must  not  lift  the  plants  or  disturb  the  roots 
to  any  extent.  If  I  find  a  plant  with  its  hold  upon  the 
ground  loosened,  I  know  there  has  been  careless  work. 
Before  digging  along  the  row  the  fork  is  sunk  beside  the 
plants  to  prevent  the  soil  from  lifting  in  cakes,  and  the 
plants  with  them.  In  brief,  pains  are  taken  that  the  plants 
should  be  just  as  firm  in  the  soil  after  cultivation  as  before. 
Let  the  reader  carefully  observe  that  this  work  is  done  early 
in  April,  while  the  plants  are  comparatively  dormant.  Most 
emphatically  it  should  not  be  done  in  May,  after  the  blos 
soms  begin  to  appear.  If  the  bed  has  been  neglected  till 
that  time,  the  surface  merely  can  be  cultivated  with  a  hoe. 
When  the  plants  have  approached  so  near  to  the  fruiting? 
the  roots  must  not  be  disturbed  at  all.  Early  cultivation 
gives  time  for  new  roots  to  grow,  and  stimulates  such 
growth.  Where  the  rows  are  sufficiently  long,  and  the 
ground  permits  it,  this  early  loosening  of  the  soil  is  accom 
plished  with  a  horse-cultivatoi  better  than  with  a  fork, 


STRAWBERRIES  115 

the  hoe  following  and  levelling  the  soil  and  taking  out 
all  weeds. 

My  next  step  during  the  second  season  is  to  mulch  the 
plants,  in  order  to  keep  the  fruit  clean.  Without  this  mulch 
the  fruit  is  usually  unfit  for  the  table.  A  dashing  shower 
splashes  the  berries  with  mud  and  grit,  and  the  fruit  must 
be  washed  before  it  is  eaten;  and  strawberries  with  their 
sun -bestowed  beauty  and  flavor  washed  away  are  as  ridicu 
lous  as  is  mere  noise  from  musical  instruments.  To  be  con 
tent  with  such  fruit  is  like  valuing  pictures  by  the  number 
of  square  inches  of  canvas!  In  perfecting  a  strawberry, 
Nature  gives  some  of  her  finest  touches,  and  it  is  not  well 
to  obliterate  them  with  either  mud  or  water.  Any  light 
clean  material  will  keep  the  fruit  clean.  I  have  found 
spring  rakings  of  the  lawn — mingled  dead  grass  and 
leaves — one  of  the  best.  Leaves  from  a  grove  would  an 
swer,  were  it  not  for  their  blowing  about  in  an  untidy 
way.  Of  course  there  is  nothing  better  than  straw  for  the 
strawberry;  but  this  often  costs  as  much  as  hay.  Any 
clean  litter  that  will  lie  close  to  the  ground  and  can  be 
pushed  up  under  the  plants  will  answer.  Nor  should  it  be 
merely  under  the  plants.  A  man  once  mulched  my  rows  in 
such  a  way  that  the  fruit  hung  over  the  litter  on  the  soil 
beyond.  A  little  common-sense  will  meet  the  requirement 
of  keeping  the  berries  well  away  from  the  loose  soil,  while 
at  the  same  time  preserving  a  neat  aspect  to  the  bed.  Pine- 
needles  and  salt- hay  are  used  where  these  materials  are 
abundant. 

Make  it  a  rule  to  mulch  as  soon  as  possible  after  the 
plants  begin  to  blossom,  and  also  after  a  good  soaking 
rain.  In  this  case  the  litter  keeps  the  ground  moist.  If 
the  soil  immediately  about  tne  plants  is  covered  when  dry, 
the  mulch  may  keep  it  dry — to  the  great  detriment  of  the 
forming  berries.  It  is  usually  best  to  put  on  the  mulch  as 
soon  as  the  early  cultivation  is  over  in  April,  and  then 
the  bed  may  be  left  till  the  fruit  is  picked.  Of  course  it 
may  be  necessary  to  pull  out  some  rank-growing  weeds 

20 — BOB — XI 


116  THE   HOME   ACRE 

from  time  to  time.  If  the  hired  man  is  left  to  do  the 
mulching  very  late  in  the  season,  he  will  probably  cover 
much  of  the  green  fruit  and  blossoms  as  well  as  the  ground. 

After  the  berries  have  been  picked,  the  remaining  treat 
ment  of  the  year  is  very  simple.  Bake  out  the  mulch,  cul 
tivate  the  soil,  and  keep  the  plants  free  of  weeds  and 
runners  as  during  the  previous  year.  Before  hard  freezing 
weather,  protect  again  as  before,  and  give  the  plants  similar 
treatment  the  following  spring  and  summer.  Under  this 
system  the  same  plants  may  be  kept  in  bearing  three,  four, 
and  five  years,  according  to  the  variety.  Some  kinds  main 
tain  their  vigor  longer  than  others.  After  the  first  year 
the  disposition  to  run  declines,  and  with  the  third  year,  in 
most  instances,  deterioration  in  the  plant  itself  begins.  I 
would  therefore  advise  that  under  this  system  a  new  bed 
be  made,  as  described,  every  third  year;  for,  it  should  be 
remembered,  the  new  bed  is  unproductive  the  first  year. 
This  should  never  be  forgotten  if  one  would  maintain  a 
continuous  supply  of  berries,  otherwise  he  will  be  like 
those  born  on  the  29th  of  February,  and  have  only  occa 
sional  birthdays. 

If  the  old  bed  is  just  where  you  wish,  and  has  been  pre 
pared  in  the  thorough  manner  described,  it  can  be  renewed 
in  the  following  manner:  When  the  old  plants  begin  to 
decline  in  vigor — say  the  third  or  fourth  spring — a  line 
of  well-decayed  compost  and  manure  from  the  cow-stable 
a  foot  wide  may  be  spread  thickly  down  between  the 
rows,  dug  under  deeply,  and  young,  plants  set  out  just 
over  the  fertilizer.  The  old  plants  can  be  treated  as  has 
already  been  described,  and  as  soon  as  they  are  through 
bearing,  dug  under.  This  would  leave  the  young  plants  in 
full  possession  of  the  ground,  and  the  cultivation  and 
management  for  three  or  more  years  would  go  on  as  already 
directed.  This  course  involves  no  loss  of  time  or  change 
of  ground  for  a  long  period.  If,  however,  a  new  bed  can 
be.  made  somewhere  else,  the  plants  will  thrive  better  upon 
it.  Unless  there  are  serious  objections,  a  change  of  ground 


STRAWBERRIES  117 

is  always  advantageous;  for  no  matter  how  lavishly  the 
plot  is  enriched,  the  strawberry  appears  to  exhaust  certain 
required  constituents  in  the  soil.  Continued  vigor  is  better 
maintained  by  wood-ashes  perhaps  than  by  any  other  fer 
tilizer,  after  the  soil  is  once  deepened  and  enriched,  and  it 
may  be  regarded  as  one  of  the  very  best  tonics  for  the  straw 
berry  plant  Bone-meal  is  almost  equally  good.  Guano 
and  kindred  fertilizers  are  too  stimulating,  and  have  not 
the  staying  qualities  required. 

As  has  been  intimated  before,  the  strawberry  bed  may 
often  be  so  located  on  the  Home  Acre  as  to  permit  of  irri 
gation.  This  does  not  mean  sprinkling  and  splattering  with 
water,  but  the  continuous  maintenance  of  abundant  moist 
ure  during  the  critical  period  from  the  time  the  fruit  begins 
to  form  until  it  ripens.  Partial  watering  during  a  drought 
is  very  injurious;  so  also  would  be  too  frequent  watering. 
If  the  ground  could  be  soaked  twice  a  week  in  the  evening, 
and  then  left  to  the  hardening  and  maturing  influence  of 
the  sun  and  wind,  the  finest  results  would  be  secured.  I 
am  satisfied  that  in  most  localities  the  size  of  the  berries 
and  the  number  of  quarts  produced  might  be  doubled  by 
judicious  irrigation. 

The  system  given  above  applies  not  only  to  sandy  loam, 
but  also  to  all  varieties  of  clay,  even  the  most  stubborn. 
In  the  latter  instance  it  would  be  well  to  employ  stable- 
manure  in  the  initial  enriching,  for  this  would  tend  to 
lighten  and  warm  the  soil.  Care  must  also  be  exercised  in 
not  working  clay  when  it  is  too  wet  or  too  dry.  Mulch  also 
plays  an  important  part  on  heavy  clay,  for  it  prevents  the 
soil  from  baking  and  cracking.  One  of  the  best  methods 
of  preventing  this  is  to  top-dress  the  ground  with  stable- 
manure,  and  hoe  it  in  from  time  to  time  when  fighting  the 
weeds.  This  keeps  the  surface  open  and  mellow — a  vital 
necessity  for  vigorous  growth.  Few  plants  will  thrive  when 
the  surface  is  hard  and  baked.  Nevertheless,  if  I  had  to 
choose  between  heavy  clay  and  light  sand  for  strawberries, 
I  should  much  prefer  the  clay.  On  the  last-named  soil  an 


118  THE   HOME   ACRE 

abundant  winter  protection  is  absolutely  necessary,  or  else 
the  plants  will  freeze  entirely  out  of  the  ground. 

The  native  strain  of  cultivated  strawberries  has  so  much 
vigor  and  power  of  adaptation  that  plenty  of  excellent  varie 
ties  can  be  grown  on  the  lightest  soil.  In  this  instance,  how 
ever,  we  would  suggest  important  modifications  in  prepara 
tion  and  culture.  The  soil,  as  has  been  already  shown, 
must  be  treated  like  a  spendthrift  Deep  plowing  or  spad 
ing  should  be  avoided,  as  the  subsoil  is  too  loose  and  leachy 
already.  The  initial  enriching  of  the  bed  should  be  gener 
ous,  but  not  lavish.  You  cannot  deposit  fertilizers  for  long- 
continued  use.  I  should  prefer  to  harrow  or  rake  in  the 
manure,  leaving  it  near  the  surface.  The  rains  will  carry 
it  down  fast  enough.  One  of  the  very  best  methods  is  to 
open  furrows,  three  feet  apart,  with  a  light  corn-plow,  half 
fill  them  with  decayed  compost,  again  run  the  plow  through 
to  mix  the  fertilizer  with  the  soil,  then  level  the  ground, 
and  set  out  the  plants  immediately  over  the  manure.  They 
thus  get  the  benefit  of  it  before  it  can  leach  away.  The 
accomplished  horticulturist  Mr.  P.  T.  Qainn,  of  Newark, 
N.  J.,  has  achieved  remarkable  success  by  this  plan. 

It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  on  light  land  strawberry 
plants  are  not  so  long-lived  and  do  not  develop,  or  "stool 
out,"  as  it  is  termed,  as  on  heavier  land.  In  order  to  secure 
the  largest  and  best  possible  crop,  therefore,  I  should  not 
advise  a  single  line  of  plants,  but  rather  a  narrow  bed  of 
plants,  say  eighteen  inches  wide,  leaving  eighteen  inches 
for  a  walk.  I  would  not  allow  this  bed  to  be  matted  with 
an  indefinite  number  of  little  plants  crowding  each  other 
into  feeble  life,  but  would  leave  only  those  runners  which 
had  taken  root  early,  and  destroy  the  rest.  A  plant  which 
forms  in  June  and  the  first  weeks  in  July  has  time  to  mature 
good-sized  fruit-buds  before  winter,  especially  if  given  space 
in  which  to  develop.  This,  however,  would  be  impossible 
if  the  runners  were  allowed  to  sod  the  ground  thickly.  In 
principle  I  would  carry  out  the  first  system,  and  give  each 
plant  space  in  which  to  grow  upon  its  own  root  as  large 


STRAWBERRIES  119 

as  it  naturally  would  in  a  light  soil,  and  I  would  have  a 
sufficient  number  of  plants  to  supply  the  deficiency  in 
growth.  On  good,  loamy  soil,  the  foliage  of  single  lines 
of  plants,  three  feet  apart,  will  grow  so  large  as  to  touch 
across  the  spaces;  but  this  could  scarcely  be  expected  on 
light  soil  unless  irrigation  were  combined  with  great  fer 
tility.  Nevertheless,  a  bed  with  plants  standing  not  too 
thickly  upon  it  will  give  an  abundance  of  superb  fruit. 

Strawberries  grown  in  beds  may  not  require  so  much 
spring  mulching  to  keep  the  fruit  clean,  but  should  care 
fully  receive  all  that  is  needed.  Winter  protection  also  is 
not  so  indispensable  as  on  heavier  soils,  but  it  always  well 
repays.  A  thick  bed  of  plants  should  never  be  protected 
by  any  kind  of  litter  which  would  leave  seeds  of  various 
kinds,  for  under  this  system  of  culture  weeds  must  be  taken 
out  by  hand;  and  this  is  always  slow,  back-aching  work. 

When  plants  are  grown  in  beds  it  does  not  pay  to  con 
tinue  them  after  fruiting  the  third  year.  For  instance,  they 
are  set  out  in  spring,  and  during  the  first  season  they  are 
permitted  to  make  a  limited  number  of  runners,  and  pre 
pare  to  fruit  the  following  year.  After  the  berries  are 
picked  the  third  year,  dig  the  plants  under,  and  occupy 
the  ground  with  something  else.  On  light  soils,  and  where 
the  plants  are  grown  in  beds  instead  of  narrow  rows,  new 
beds  should  be  set  out  every  alternate  year. 

In  order  to  have  an  abundant  supply  of  young  plants  it 
is  only  necessary  to  let  one  end  of  a  row  or  a  small  portion 
of  a  bed  run  at  will.  Then  new  plants  can  be  set  out  as 
desired. 

While  more  strawberries  are  planted  in  spring  than  at 
any  other  time,  certain  advantages  are  secured  by  sum 
mer  and  fall  setting.  This  is  especially  true  of  gardens 
wherein  early  crops  are  maturing,  leaving  the  ground  va 
cant.  For  instance,  there  are  areas  from  which  early 
peas,  beans,  or  potatoes  have  been  gathered.  Suppose 
such  a  plot  is  ready  for  something  else  in  July  or  Au 
gust,  the  earlier  the  better.  Unless  the  ground  is  very 


120  THE   HOME    ACRE 

dry,  a  bed  can  be  prepared  as  has  been  described.  If  the 
soil  is  in  good  condition,  rich  and  deep,  it  can  be  dug 
thoroughly,  and  the  plants  set  out  at  once  in  the  cool  of 
the  evening,  or  just  before  a  shower.  During  the  hot  season 
a  great  advantage  is  secured  if  the  plants  are  set  imme 
diately  after  the  ground  is  prepared,  and  while  the  surface 
is  still  moist.  It  is  unfortunate  if  ground  is  made  ready 
and  then  permitted  to  dry  out  before  planting  takes  place, 
for  watering,  no  matter  how  thorough,  has  not  so  good  an 
influence  in  starting  new  growth  as  the  natural  moisture  of 
the  soil.  It  would  be  better,  therefore,  to  dig  the  ground 
late  in  the  afternoon,  and  set  out  the  plants  the  same  even 
ing.  Watering,  however,  should  never  be  dispensed  with 
during  warm  weather,  unless  there  is  a  certainty  of  rain; 
and  even  then  it  does  no  harm. 

Suppose  one  wishes  to  set  a  new  bed  in  July.  If  he  has 
strawberries  growing  on  his  place,  his  course  would  be  to 
let  some  of  his  favorite  varieties  make  new  runners  as  early 
as  possible.  These  should  be  well-rooted  young  plants  by 
the  middle  of  the  month.  After  the  new  ground  is  pre 
pared,  these  can  be  taken  up,  with  a  ball  of  earth  attached 
to  their  roots,  and  carried  carefully  to  their  new  starting- 
place.  If  they  are  removed  so  gently  as  not  to  shake  off 
the  earth  from  the  roots,  they  will  not  know  that  they  have 
been  moved,  but  continue  to  thrive  without  wilting  a  leaf. 
If  such  transplanting  is  done  immediately  after  a  soaking 
rain,  the  soil  will  cling  to  the  roots  so  tenaciously  as  to 
ensure  a  transfer  that  will  not  cause  any  check  of  growth. 
But  it  is  not  necessary  to  wait  for  rain.  At  five  in  the  after 
noon  soak  with  water  the  ground  in  which  the  young 
plants  are  standing,  and  by  six  o'clock  you  can  take  up 
the  plants  with  their  roots  incased  in  clinging  earth,  just 
as  successfully  as  after  a  rain.  Plants  thus  transferred,  and 
watered  after  being  set  out,  will  not  wilt,  although  the 
thermometer  is  in  the  nineties  the  following  day.  If  young 
plants  are  scarce,  take  up  the  strongest  and  best- rooted 
ones,  and  leave  the  runner  attached;  set  out  such  plants 


STRAWBERRIES  121 

with  their  balls  of  earth  four  feet  apart  in  the  row,  and 
with  a  lump  of  earth  fasten  down  the  runners  along  the 
line.  Within  a  month  these  runners  will  fill  up  the  new 
rows  as  closely  as  desirable.  Then  all  propagation  in  the 
new  bed  should  be  checked,  and  the  plants  compelled  to 
develop  for  fruiting'  in  the  coming  season.  In  this  latitude 
a  plant  thus  transferred  in  July  or  August  will  bear  a  very 
good  crop  the  following  June,  and  the  berries  will  probably 
be  larger  than  in  the  following  years.  This  tendency  to  pro 
duce  very  large  fruit  is  characteristic  of  young  plants  set 
out  in  summer.  It  thus  may  be  seen  that  plants  set  in 
spring  can  not  produce  a  good  crop  of  fruit  under  about 
fourteen  months,  while  others,  set  in  summer,  will  yield  in 
nine  or  ten  months.  I  have  set  out  many  acres  in  summer 
and  early  autumn  with  the  most  satisfactory  results.  There 
after  the  plants  were  treated  in  precisely  the  same  manner 
as  those  set  in  spring.  *s§> 

If  the  plants  must  be  bought  and  transported  from  a  dis 
tance  during  hot  weather,  I  should  not  advise  the  purchase 
of  any  except  those  grown  in  pots.  Nurserymen  have  made 
us  familiar  with  pot-grown  plants,  for  we  fill  our  flower 
beds  with  them.  In  like  manner  strawberry  plants  are 
grown  and  sold.  Little  pots,  three  inches  across  at  the 
top,  are  sunk  in  the  earth  along  a  strawberry  row,  and 
the  runners  so  fastened  down  that  they  take  root  in  these 
pots.  In  about  two  weeks  the  young  plant  will  fill  a  pot 
with  roots.  It  may  then  be  severed  from  the  parent,  and 
transported  almost  any  distance,  like  a  verbena.  Usually 
the  ball  of  earth  and  roots  is  separated  from  the  pot,  and  is 
then  wrapped  in  paper  before  being  packed  in  the  shallow 
box  employed  for  shipping  purposes.  A  nurseryman  once 
distributed  in  a  summer  throughout  the  country  a  hundred 
thousand  plants  of  one  variety  grown  in  this  manner.  The 
earth  encasing  the  roots  sustained  the  plants  during  trans 
portation  and  after  setting  sufficiently  to  prevent  any  loss 
wortb  mentioning.  This  method  of  the  plant-grower  can 
easily  be  employed  on  the  Home  Acre.  Pots  filled  with 


122  THE   HOME    ACRE 

earth  may  be  sunk  along  the  strawberry  rows  in  the  garden, 
the  runners  made  to  root  in  them,  and  from  them  trans 
ferred  to  any  part  of  the  garden  wherein  we  propose  to 
make  a  new  bed.  It  is  only  a  neater  and  more  certain  way 
of  removing  young  plants  with  a  ball  of  earth  from  the 
open  bed. 

Some  have  adopted  this  system  in  raising  strawberries 
for  market.  They  prepare  very  rich  beds,  fill  them  with 
pot-grown  plants  in  June  or  July,  take  from  these  plants 
one  crop  the  following  June,  then  plow  them  under.  As 
a  rule,  however,  such  plants  cannot  be  bought  in  quantities 
before  August  or  September. 

As  we  go  south,  September,  October,  or  November,  ac 
cording  to  lowness  of  latitude,  are  the  favorite  months  for 
planting.  1  have  had  excellent  success  on  the  Hudson  in 
late  autumn  planting.  My  method  has  been  to  cover  the 
young  plants,  just  before  the  ground  froze,  with  two  or 
three  inches  of  clean  earth,  and  then  to  rake  it  off  again 
early  in  April.  The  roots  of  such  plants  become  thoroughly 
established  during  the  winter,  and  start  with  double  vigor. 
Plants  set  out  in  late  autumn  do  best  on  light,  dry  soils. 
On  heavy  soils  they  will  be  frozen  out  unless  well  covered. 
They  should  not  be  allowed  to  bear  the  following  season. 
A  late-set  plant  cannot  before  winter  in  our  climate  become 
strong  and  sturdy  enough  to  produce  much  fruit  the  follow 
ing  season.  I  make  it  a  rule  not  to  permit  plants  set  out 
after  the  first  of  October  to  bear  fruit  until  a  year  from  the 
following  June. 

In  setting  out  plants,  the  principle  of  sex  should  be 
remembered.  The  majority  of  our  favorite  varieties  are 
bisexual;  that  is,  the  blossoms  are  furnished  with  both 
stamens  and  pistils.  A  variety  with  this  organization,  as 
the  Sharpless,  for  instance,  will  bear  alone  with  no  other 
kind  near  it  But  if  one  set  out  a  bed  of  Champions — 
another  fine  variety — well  apart  from  any  staminate  kind, 
it  would  blossom  profusely,  but  produce  no  fruit.  When 
1  was  a  boy,  Hovey's  Seedling  was  the  great  strawberry  of 


STRAWBERRIES  123 

the  day,  and  marvellous  stories  were  told  of  the  productive 
ness  of  the  plants  and  the  size  of  the  berries.  How  well  I 
remember  the  disappointment  and  wrath  of  people  who 
bought  the  plants  at  a  high  price,  and  set  them  out  with 
no  staminate  varieties  near  to  fertilize  the  pistillate  blos 
soms'  Expectations  were  raised  to  the  highest  pitch  by 
profuse  blossoming  in  May,  but  not  a  berry  could  be  found 
the  ensuing  June.  The  vigorous  plants  were  only  a  mock 
ery,  and  the  people  who  sold  them  were  berated  as  hum 
bugs.  To-day  the  most  highly  praised  strawberry  is  the 
Jewell.  The  originator,  Mr.  P.  M.  Augur,  writes  me  that 
'•plants  set  two  feet  by  eighteen  inches  apart,  August  1, 
1884,  ;n  June,  1885,  completely  covered  the  ground,  touch 
ing  both  ways,  and  averaged  little  over  a  quart  to  the  plant 
for  the  centre  patch."  All  runners  were  kept  off,  in  ac 
cordance  with  the  system  advocated  in  this  paper.  "At 
Boston  a  silver  medal  was  awarded  to  this  variety  as  the 
best  new  strawberry  introduced  within  five  years."  People 
reading  such  laudation — well  deserved,  I  believe — might 
conclude  the  best  is  good  enough  for  us,  and  send  for 
enough  Jewell  plants  to  set  out  a  bed.  If  they  set  no  others 
near  it,  their  experience  would  be  similar  to  that  which  I 
witnessed  in  the  case  of  flovey's  Seedling  thirty  odd  years 
ago.  The  blossom  of  the  Jewell  contains  pistils  only,  and 
will  produce  no  fruit  unless  a  staminate  variety  is  planted 
near.  1  have  never  considered  this  an  objection  against 
a  variety;  for  why  should  any  one  wish  to  raise  only  one 
variety  of  strawberry  ?  All  danger  of  barrenness  in  pistil 
late  kinds  is  removed  absolutely  by  planting  staminate 
sorts  m  the  same  bed.  In  nurserymen's  catalogues  pistillate 
varieties  are  marked  "P.,"  and  the  purchaser  has  merely  to 
set  out  the  plants  within  a  few  feet  of  some  perfect  flowering 
kind  to  secure  abundant  fruit. 

As  a  result  of  much  experience,  I  will  now  make  some 
suggestions  as  to  varieties.  In  a  former  paper  I  have  given 
the  opinions  of  others  upon  this  important  subject,  and  one 
can  follow  the  advice  of  such  eminent  authorities  without 


124  THE   HOME   ACRE 

misgiving.  The  earliest  strawberry  that  I  have  ever  raised, 
and  one  of  the  best  flavored,  is  the  Crystal  City.  It  is  evi 
dently  a  wild  variety  domesticated,  and  it  has  the  exquisite 
flavor  and  perfume  of  the  field-berry.  It  rarely  fails  to  give 
us  fruit  in  May,  and  my  children,  with  the  unerring  taste 
of  connoisseurs,  follow  it  up  until  the  last  berry  is  picked. 
It  would  run  all  over  the  garden  unchecked;  and  this  pro 
pensity  must  be  severely  curbed  to  render  a  bed  productive. 
Keeping  earliness  and  high  flavor  in  view,  I  would  next 
recommend  the  Black  Defiance.  It  is  not  remarkably  pro 
ductive  on  many  soils,  but  the  fruit  is  so  delicious  that 
it  well  deserves  a  place.  The  Duchess  and  Bid  well  follow 
in  the  order  of  ripening.  On  my  grounds  they  have  always 
made  enormous  plants,  and  yielded  an  abundance  of  good- 
flavored  berries.  The  Downing  is  early  to  medium  in  the 
season  of  ripening,  and  should  be  in  every  collection.  The 
Indiana  is  said  to  resemble  this  kind,  and  to  be  an  improve 
ment  upon  it  Miner's  Prolific  is  another  kindred  berry, 
and  a  most  excellent  one.  Among  the  latest  berries  I  recom 
mend  the  Sharpless  Champion,  or  Windsor  Chief,  and 
Parry.  If  one  wishes  to  raise  a  very  large,  late,  showy 
berry,  let  him  try  the  Longfellow.  The  Cornelia  is  said  to 
grow  very  large  and  ripen  late,  but  I  have  not  yet  fruited 
it.  As  I  said  fifteen  or  twenty  years  ago,  if  I  were  restricted 
to  but  one  variety,  I  should  choose  the  Triomphe  de  Gand, 
a  foreign  kind,  but  well  adapted  to  rich,  heavy  soils.  The 
berries  begin  to  ripen  early,  and  last  very  late.  The  Mem 
phis  Late  has  always  been  the  last  to  mature  on  my  grounds, 
and,  like  the  Crystal  City,  is  either  a  wild  variety,  or  else 
but  slightly  removed.  The  Wilson  is  the  great  berry  of 
commerce.  It  is  not  ripe  when  it  is  red,  and  therefore  is 
rarely  eaten  in  perfection.  Let  it  get  almost  black  in  its 
ripeness,  and  it  is  one  of  the  richest  berries  in  existence. 
With  a  liberal  allowance  of  sugar  and  cream,  it  makes  a 
dish  much  too  good  for  an  average  king.  It  is  also  the  best 
variety  for  preserving. 

It  should  be  remembered  that  all  strawberries,  unlike 


STRAWBERRIES  125 

pears,  should  be  allowed  to  mature  fully  before  being 
picked.  Many  a  variety  is  condemned  because  the  fruit  is 
eaten  prematurely.  There  is  no  richer  berry  in  existence, 
than  the  Windsor  Chief,  yet  the  fruit,  when  merely  red,  is 
decidedly  disagreeable. 

The  reader  can  now  make  a  selection  of  kinds  which 
should  give  him  six  weeks  of  strawberries.  At  the  same 
time  he  must  be  warned  that  plants  growing  in  a  hard, 
dry,  poor  soil,  and  in  matted  beds,  yield  their  fruit  almost 
together,  no  matter  how  many  varieties  may  have  been 
set  out.  Under  such  conditions  the  strawberry  season  is 
brief  indeed. 

While  I  was  writing  this  paper  the  chief  enemy  of  the 
strawberry  came  blundering  and  bumping  about  my  lamp — 
the  May  beetle.  The  larva  of  this  insect,  the  well-known 
white  grub,  has  an  insatiable  appetite  for  strawberry  roots, 
and  in  some  localities  and  seasons  is  very  destructive.  One 
year  I  lost  at  least  one  hundred  thousand  plants  by  this 
pest.  This  beetle  does  not  often  lay  its  egg  in  well-cultivated 
ground,  and  we  may  reasonably  hope  to  escape  its  ravages 
in  a  garden.  If,  when  preparing  for  a  bed,  many  white 
grubs  are  found  in  the  soil,  I  should  certainly  advise  that 
another  locality  be  chosen.  The  only  remedy  is  to  dig  out 
the  larvae  and  kill  them.  If  you  find  a  plant  wilting  with 
out  apparent  cause,  you  may  be  sure  that  a  grub  is  feeding 
on  the  roots.  The  strawberry  plant  is  comparatively  free 
from  insect  enemies  and  disease,  and  rarely  disappoints  any 
one  who  gives  it  a  tithe  of  the  attention  it  deserves. 

There  are  many  points  in  connection  with  this  fruit  which, 
in  a  small  treatise  like  this,  must  be  merely  touched  upon 
or  omitted  altogether.  I  may  refer  those  who  wish  to  study 
the  subject  more  thoroughly  to  my  work,  "Success  with 
Small  Fruits." 


126  THE   HOME   ACRE 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   KITCHEN-GARDEN 

THE  garden  should  be  open  to  the  sky,  and  as  far  as 
possible  unshaded  by  adjacent  trees  from  the  morn 
ing  and  afternoon  sun.  It  is  even  more  essential  that 
the  trees  be  not  so  near  that  their  voracious  roots  can  make 
their  way  to  the  rich  loam  of  the  garden. 

Now  for  the  soil.  We  should  naturally  suppose  that  that 
of  Eden  was  a  deep  sandy  loam,  with  not  too  porous  a  sub 
soil.  As  we  have  already  seen  again  and  again,  such  a  soil 
appears  to  be  the  laboratory  in  which  we  can  assist  Nature 
to  develop  her  best  products.  But  Nature  has  a  profound 
respect  for  skill,  and  when  she  recognizes  it,  "lends  a 
hand"  in  securing  excellent  crops  from  almost  drifting 
sand  or  stubborn  clay.  She  has  even  assisted  the  Hollander 
in  wresting  from  the  ocean  one  of  the  gardens  of  the  world. 

We  must  again  dwell  on  the  principles  already  empha 
sized,  that  soils  must  be  treated  according  to  their  nature. 
If  too  damp,  they  must  be  drained;  if  of  the  fortunate  qual 
ity  of  a  sandy  loam  resting  on  a  clay  subsoil,  they  can  be 
abundantly  deepened  and  enriched  from  the  start,  if  of  a 
heavy  clay,  inclined  to  be  cold  and  wet  in  spring,  and  to 
bake  and  crack  in  summer,  skill  should  aim  to  lighten  it 
and  remove  its  inertia;  finally,  as  we  have  shown,  a  light, 
porous  soil  should  be  treated  like  a  spendthrift.  All  soils, 
except  the  last-named,  are  much  the  better  for  being  en 
riched  and  deeply  plowed  or  forked  in  October  or  Novem 
ber.  This  exposes  the  mould  to  the  sweetening  and  mechan 
ical  action  of  frost,  and  the  fertilizers  incorporated  with  it 


THE   KITCHEN-GARDEN  127 

are  gradually  transformed  into  just  that  condition  of  plant 
food  which  the  rootlets  take  up  with  the  greatest  ease  and 
rapidity.  A  light  soil,  on  the  contrary,  should  not  be  worked 
in  autumn,  but  be  left  intact  after  the  crops  are  taken  from  it. 

In  one  respect  a  light  soil  and  a  stiff,  heavy  one  should 
be  treated  in  the  same  way,  but  for  different  reasons.  In 
the  first  instance,  fertilizers  should  be  applied  in  modera 
tion  to  the  surface,  and  rains  and  the  cultivation  of  the 
growing  crops  depended  upon  to  carry  the  richness  down 
ward  to  the  roots.  The  porous  nature  of  the  earth  must 
ever  be  borne  in  mind;  fertilizers  pass  through  it  and 
disappear,  and  therefore  are  applied  to  the  surface,  to 
delay  this  process  and  enable  the  roots  to  obtain  as 
much  nutriment  as  possible  during  the  passage.  Equal 
and  even  greater  advantages  are  secured  by  a  top-dressing 
of  barnyard  manures  and  composts  to  the  heaviest  of  clay. 
The  surface  of  such  soils,  left  to  Nature,  becomes  in  hot, 
dry  weather  like  pottery,  baking  and  cracking,  shielding 
from  dew  and  shower,  and  preventing  all  circulation  of  air 
about  the  roots.  A  top-dressing  prevents  all  this,  keeps  the 
surface  open  and  mellow,  and  supplies  not  only  fertility, 
but  the  mechanical  conditions  that  are  essential. 

If  we  are  now  ready  to  begin,  let  us  begin  right.  I  have 
not  much  sympathy  with  finical,  fussy  gardening.  One  of 
the  chief  fascinations  of  gardening  is  the  endless  field  it 
affords  for  skilful  sleight  of  hand,  short-cuts,  unconven 
tional  methods,  and  experiments.  The  true  gardener  soon 
ceases  to  be  a  man  of  rules,  and  becomes  one  of  strategy, 
of  expedients.  He  is  prompt  to  act  at  the  right  moment. 
Like  the  artist,  he  is  ever  seeking  and  acting  upon  hints 
from  Nature.  The  man  of  rules  says  the  first  of  July  is  the 
time  to  set  out  winter  cabbage;  and  out  the  plants  go, 
though  the  sky  be  brazen,  and  the  mercury  in  the  nineties. 
The  gardener  has  his  plants  ready,  and  for  a  few  days 
watches  the  sky.  At  last  he  perceives  that  rain  is  coming; 
then  he  sets  out  his  plants,  and  Nature's  watering  starts 
them,  ua wilted,  on  their  new  growth. 


128  THE   HOME   ACRE 

At  the  same  time  I  protest  against  careless,  slovenly 
gardening — ground  imperfectly  prepared,  crooked  rows, 
seed  half  covered,  or  covered  so  deeply  that  the  germs  are 
discouraged  long  before  they  reach  light.  One  of  the  best 
aids  to  success  is  a  small  compost-heap  composed  equally 
of  manure  from  the  horse-stable,  the  cow-stable,  and  of 
leaves.  This  should  be  allowed  to  stand  so  long,  and  be 
cut  down  and  turned  so  often,  that  it  becomes  like  a  fine 
black  powder,  and  is  much  the  better  for  being  kept  under 
shelter  from  sun  and  rain. 

All  who  hope  to  have  a  permanent  garden  will  naturally 
think  first  of  asparagus — one  of  the  vegetables  that  have 
been  longest  in  cultivation,  and  one  which  is  justly  among 
the  most  valued.,  It  was  cultivated  hundreds  of  years  be 
fore  the  Christian  era,  and  is  to-day  growing  in  popular 
esteem  among  civilized  peoples. 

In  the  matter  of  preparation  I  shall  take  issue  with  many 
of  the  authorities.  I  have  read  and  known  of  instances 
wherein  extraordinary  expense  and  pains  have  been  be 
stowed  upon  the  asparagus- bed.  The  soil  has  been  dug 
out  to  the  depth  of  two  or  more  feet,  the  bottom  paved, 
and  the  homely,  hardy  roots,  accustomed  to  roughing  it  the 
world  over,  set  out  and  tended  with  a  care  which,  if  given 
to  a  potato,  would  make  it  open  its  eyes.  There  are  few 
more  hardy  or  widely  distributed  species  of  vegetables  than 
asparagus.  It  is  "a  native  of  the  sea-coasts  of  various  coun 
tries  of  Europe  and  Asia."  According  to  Loudon,  it  is 
abundant  on  the  sandy  steppes  in  the  interior  of  .Russia. 
In  Southern  Eussia  and  Poland  the  horses  and  cows  feed 
upon  it.  It  grows  freely  in  the  fens  of  Lincolnshire,  and 
is  indigenous  to  Cornwall.  On  the  borders  of  the  Euphrates 
the  shoots  are  so  extraordinarily  large  and  vigorous  that 
Thompson  thinks  it  would  be  to  the  advantage  of  gardeners 
to  import  roots  from  that  region.  These  facts  may  indicate 
that  too  much  stress  may  have  been  laid  on  its  character  as 
a  marine  plant.  Yet  it  is  true  that  it  grows  naturally  on  the 
coast  of  Holland,  in  the  sandy  valleys  and  on  the  downs, 


THE   KITCHEN-GARDEN  129 

while  ofi  Lizard  Point  it  flourishes  naturally  on  an  island 
where,  in  gales,  the  sea  breaks  over  the  roots.  In  this 
country  also  it  has  escaped  cultivation,  and  is  establishing 
itself  along  our  coasts,  The  truth  is  that  it  is  a  plant  en 
dowed  with  a  remarkable  power  of  adaptation  to  all  soils 
and  climates,  and  does  not  need  the  extravagant  petting 
often  given  it.  On  different  portions  of  my  place  chance 
seeds  have  fallen,  and  annually  produce  almost  as  fine  heads 
as  are  cut  from  the  garden.  Nature  therefore  teaches  what 
experience  verifies — that  asparagus  is  one  of  the  most  easily 
grown  and  inexpensive  vegetables  of  the  garden.  From  two 
small  beds  we  have  raised  during  the  past  eight  years  twice 
as  much  as  we  could  use,  and  at  the  cost  of  very  little 
trouble  either  in  planting  or  cultivation. 

In  my  effort  to  show,  from  the  hardy  nature  of  the 
asparagus  plant,  that  extravagant  preparation  is  unneces 
sary,  let  no  one  conclude  that  I  am  opposed  to  a  good, 
thorough  preparation  that  accords  with  common-sense.  Jt 
is  not  for  one  year's  crop  that  you  are  preparing,  but  for 
a  vegetable  that  should  be  productive  on  the  same  ground 
thirty  or  forty  years.  What  I  said  of  strawberries  applies 
here.  A  fair  yield  of  fruit  may  be  expected  from  plants  set 
out  on  ordinary  corn-ground,  but  more  than  double  the 
crop  would  be  secured  from  ground  generously  prepared. 

When  I  first  came  to  Cornwall,  about  twelve  years  ago, 
I  determined  to  have  an  asparagus  bed  as  soon  as  possible. 
I  selected  a  plot  eighty  feet  long  by  thirty  wide,  of  sandy 
loam,  sloping  to  the  southwest.  It  had  been  used  as  a  gar 
den  before,  but  was  greatly  impoverished.  I  gave  it  a  good 
top-dressing  of  barnyard  manure  in  the  autumn,  and  plowed 
it  deeply;  another  top-dressing  of  fine  yard  manure  and  a 
deep  forking  in  the  early  spring.  Then,  raking  the  surface 
smooth,  I  set  a  line  along  its  length  on  one  side.  A  man 
took  a  spade,  sunk  its  length  in  the  soil,  and  pushed  it  for 
ward  strongly.  This  action  made  an  almost  perpendicular 
wedge-shaped  aperture  just  back  of  the  spade.  The  aspara 
gus  plant,  with  its  roots  spread  out  fan-shape,  was  sunk  in 


130  THE   HOME   ACRE 

this  opening  to  a  depth  that  left  the  crown  of  the  plant 
between  three  and  four  inches  below  the  surface.  Then  the 
spade  was  drawn  out,  and  the  soil  left  to  fall  over  the  crown 
of  the  plant.  .Rapidly  repeating  this  simple  process,  the 
whole  plot  was  soon  set  out.  The  entire  bed  was  then  raked 
smooth.  The  rows  were  three  feet  apart,  and  plants  one 
foot  apart  in  the  row.  A  similar  plot  could  scarcely  have 
been  planted  with  potatoes  more  quickly  or  at  less  expense, 
and  a  good  crop  of  potatoes  could  not  have  been  raised 
on  that  poor  land  with  less  preparation.  A  few  years  later 
I  made  another  and  smaller  bed  in  the  same  way.  The  re 
sults  have  been  entirely  satisfactory.  I  secured  my  object, 
and  had  plenty  of  asparagus  at  slight  cost,  and  have  also 
sold  and  given  away  large  quantities.  A  bit  of  experience 
is  often  worth  much  more  than  theory. 

At  the  same  time  it  is  proper  that  some  suggestions 
should  follow  this  brief  record.  The  asparagus  bed  should 
be  in  well-drained  soil;  for  while  the  plant  will  grow  on  wet 
land,  it  will  start  late,  and  our  aim  is  to  have  it  early. 

Again,  with  asparagus  as  with  nearly  everything  else, 
the  deeper  and  richer  the  soil,  the  larger  and  more  luxuri 
ant  the  crop.  Listen  to  Thompson,  the  great  English  gar 
dener:  "If  the  ground  has  been  drained,  trenched,  or  made 
good  to  the  depth  of  three  feet,  as  directed  for  the  kitchen- 
garden  generally  [!],  that  depth  will  suffice  for  the  growth 
of  asparagus."  We  should  think  so;  yet  I  am  fast  reach 
ing  the  conclusion  that  under  most  circumstances  it  would 
in  the  end  repay  us  to  secure  that  depth  of  rich  soil  through 
out  our  gardens,  not  only  for  asparagus,  but  for  everything 
else.  Few  of  the  hasty,  slipshod  gardeners  of  America  have 
any  idea  of  the  results  secured  by  extending  root  pasturage 
to  the  depth  of  three  feet  instead  of  six  or  seven  inches;  soil 
thus  prepared  would  defy  flood  and  drought,  and  everything 
planted  therein  would  attain  almost  perfection,  asparagus 
included.  But  who  has  not  seen  little  gardens  by  the  road 
side  in  which  all  the  esculents  seemed  growing  together 
much  as  they  would  be  blended  in  the  pot  thereafter  ?  Yet 


THE   KITCHEN-GARDEN 

from  such  patches,  half  snatched  from  barrenness,  many  a 
hearty,  wholesome  dinner  results.  Let  us  have  a  garden 
at  once,  then  improve  it  indefinitely. 

I  will  give  in  brief  just  what  is  essential  to  secure  a  good 
and  lasting  asparagus  bed.  We  can  if  we  choose  grow  our 
own  plants,  and  thus  be  sure  of  good  ones.  The  seed  can 
be  sown  in  late  October  or  early  spring  on  light,  rich  soil  in 
rows  eighteen  inches  apart.  An  ounce  of  seed  will  sow  fifty 
feet  of  drill.  If  the  soil  is  light,  cover  the  seed  one  inch 
deep;  if  heavy,  half  an  inch;  pack  the  ground  lightly,  and 
cover  the  drill  with  a  good  dusting  of  that  fine  compost  we 
spoke  of,  or  any  fine  manure.  This  gives  the  young  plants 
a  good  send-off.  By  the  use  of  the  hoe  and  hand-weeding 
keep  them  scrupulously  clean  during  the  growing  season, 
and  when  the  tops  are  killed  by  frost  mow  them  off.  I 
should  advise  sowing  two  or  three  seeds  to  the  inch,  and 
then  when  the  plants  are  three  inches  high,  thinning  them 
out  so  that  they  stand  four  inches  apart.  You  thus  insure 
almost  the  certainty  of  good  strong  plants  by  autumn;  for 
plants  raised  as  directed  are  ready  to  be  set  out  after  one 
season's  growth,  and  by  most  gardeners  are  preferred. 

In  most  instances  good  plants  can  be  bought  for  a  small 
sum  from  nurserymen,  who  usually  offer  for  sale  those  that 
are  two  years  old.  Strong  one-year-olds  are  just  as  good, 
but  under  ordinary  culture  are  rarely  large  enough  until 
two  years  of  age.  I  would  not  set  out  three-year-old  plants, 
for  they  are  apt  to  be  stunted  and  enfeebled.  You  can  easily 
calculate  how  many  plants  you  require  by  remembering  that 
the  rows  are  to  be  three  feet  apart,  and  the  plants  one  foot 
apart  in  the  row. 

Now,  whether  you  have  raised  the  plants  yourself,  or 
have  bought  them,  you  are  ready  to  put  them  where  they 
will  grow,  and  yield  to  the  end  of  your  life  probably.  Again 
I  substantiate  my  position  by  quoting  from  the  well-known 
gardener  and  writer,  Mr.  Joseph  Harris:  "The  old  direc 
tions  for  planting  an  asparagus  bed  were  well  calculated  to 
deter  any  one  from  making  the  attempt  I  can  recollect  the 


132  THE   HOME    ACRE 

first  I  made.  The  labor  and  manure  must  have  cost  at  the 
rate  of  a  thousand  dollars  an  acre,  and,  after  all  was  done, 
no  better  results  were  obtained  than  we  now  secure  at  one- 
tenth  of  the  expense." 

If  the  ground  selected  for  the  bed  is  a  well-drained  sandy 
loam,  is  clean,  free  from  sod,  roots,  stones,  etc.,  I  would 
give  it  a  top-dressing  of  six  inches  of  good  barnyard  ma 
nure,  which  by  trenching  or  plowing  I  would  thoroughly 
mix  with  the  soil  to  the  depth  of  at  least  two  feet.  If  the 
ground  is  not  free  from  stones,  roots,  and  sod,  I  should  put 
on  the  manure,  as  directed,  in  the  autumn,  and  begin  on 
one  side  of  the  prospective  bed  and  trench  it  all  over, 
mingling  the  fertilizer  through  the  soil.  The  trencher  can 
throw  out  on  the  surface  back  of  him  every  stone,  root,  and 
weed,  so  that  by  the  time  he  is  through  there  is  a  sufficient 
space  of  ground  amply  prepared. 

On  all  soils  except  a  wet,  heavy  clay  I  prefer  autumn 
planting.  During  the  latter  part  of  October  or  early  No 
vember  put  in  the  plants  as  explained  above,  or  else  make 
a  straight  trench  that  will  give  room  for  the  spreading  of 
the  roots,  and  leave  the  crowns  between  three  and  four 
inches  below  the  surface.  Then  level  the  ground,  and  cover 
the  row  with  a  light  mulch  of  stable-manure  as  you  would 
strawberries.  If  more  convenient  to  set  out  the  plants  in 
spring,  do  so  as  soon  as  the  ground  is  dry  enough  to  crum 
ble  freely  when  worked.  In  the  spring  rake  off  the  mulch, 
and  as  early  as  possible  fork  the  ground  over  lightly,  taking 
pains  not  to  touch  or  wound  the  crowns  of  the  plants.  The 
young,  slender  shoots  will  soon  appear,  and  slender  enough 
they  will  be  at  first.  Keep  them  free  of  weeds  and  let  them 
grow  uncut  all  through  the  first  year;  mow  off  the  tops  in 
late  October,  and  cover  the  entire  bed  with  three  or  four 
inches  of  coarse  barnyard  manure.  In  spring  rake  off  the 
coarsest  of  this  mulch,  from  which  the  rains  and  melting 
snows  have  been  carrying  down  richness,  dig  the  bed  over 
lightly  once  (never  wounding  the  roots  or  crowns  of  the 
plants),  and  then  sow  salt  over  the  bed  till  it  is  barely 


THE  KITCHEN-GARDEN  133 

white.  Let  the  tops  grow  naturally  and  uncut  the  second 
year,  and  merely  keep  clean.  Take  precisely  the  same  ac 
tion  again  in  the  autumn  and  the  following  spring.  During 
the  latter  part  of  April  and  May  a  few  of  the  strongest  shoots 
may  be  cut  for  the  table.  This  should  be  done  with  a  sharp 
knife  a  little  below  the  surface,  so  that  the  soil  may  heal  the 
wound,  and  carefully,  lest  other  heads  just  beneath  the  sur 
face  be  clipped  prematurely.  Cut  from  the  bed  very  spar 
ingly,  however,  the  third  year,  and  let  vigorous  foliage  form 
corresponding  root-power.  In  the  autumn  of  the  third  and 
the  spring  of  the  fourth  year  the  treatment  is  precisely  the 
same.  In  the  fourth  season,  however,  the  shoots  may  be 
used  freely  to,  say,  about  June  20,  after  which  the  plants 
should  be  permitted  to  grow  unchecked  till  fall,  in  order  to 
maintain  and  increase  the  root- power.  Every  year  there 
after  there  should  be  an  abundant  top-dressing  of  manure 
in  the  fall,  and  a  careful  digging  of  the  ground  in  the  early 
spring. 

Light,  sandy  soil,  clear  of  stones,  is  well  adapted  to 
asparagus,  but  should  be  treated  on  the  principles  already 
indicated  in  this  work.  There  should  be  no  attempt,  by 
trenching,  to  render  a  porous  subsoil  more  leaky.  It  is 
useless  to  give  the  bed  a  thorough  initial  enriching.  Put 
on  a  generous  top-dressing  every  autumn  and  leave  the 
rains  to  do  their  work,  and  good  crops  will  result. 

If,  on  the  contrary,  a  cold,  heavy  clay  must  be  dealt 
with,  every  effort  should  be  made  to  ameliorate  it.  Work 
in  a  large  quantity  of  sand  at  first,  if  possible;  employ  ma 
nures  from  the  horse-stable,  or  other  light  and  exciting 
fertilizers,  and  there  will  be  no  failure. 

In  regard  to  the  use  of  salt,  Mr.  Harris  writes:  "It  is  a 
popular  notion  that  common  salt  is  exceedingly  beneficial 
to  asparagus.  I  do  not  know  that  there  is  any  positive 
proof  of  this,  but,  at  any  rate,  salt  will  do  no  harm,  even 
if  applied  thick  enough  to  kill  many  of  our  common  weeds. 
Salt  is  usually  sown  broadcast,  at  the  rate  of  ten  bushels  to 
the  acre." 


134  THE   HOME   ACRE 

Until  recently  1  have  grown  asparagus  without  salt. 
Hereafter  I  shall  employ  it  in  sufficient  degree  to  kill  all 
weeds  except  the  strongest  I  shall  sow  it  every  spring 
after  the  bed  is  dug  until  the  ground  is  as  white  as  if 
a  flurry  of  snow  had  passed  over  it.  I  think  salt  is  a  good 
manure  for  asparagus,  and  many  other  things.  At  any 
rate,  we  secure  a  great  advantage  in  keeping  our  beds  free 
of  weeds. 

I  have  written  thus  fully  of  asparagus  because  when  a 
man  makes  a  bed  as  directed  he  makes  it  for  a  lifetime.  He 
can  scarcely  find  another  investment  that  will  yield  a  larger 
return.  We  have  asparagus  on  our  table  every  day,  from 
the  middle  of  April  to  July  1;  and  the  annual  care  of  the 
crop  is  far  less  than  that  of  a  cabbage- patch.  I  do  not  ad 
vise  severe  cutting,  however,  after  the  middle  of  June,  for 
this  reason:  it  is  well  known  that  the  most  pestiferous  peren 
nial  weed  can  be  killed  utterly  if  never  allowed  to  make 
foliage.  As  foliage  depends  upon  the  root,  so  the  root 
depends  on  foliage.  The  roots  of  asparagus  may  therefore 
be  greatly  enfeebled  by  too  severe  and  long-continued  cut 
ting.  Avarice  always  overreaches  itself. 

In  some  localities  the  asparagus  beetle  destroys  whole 
plantations.  Thompson,  the  English  authority,  says:  "The 
larvae,  beetles,  and  eggs  are  found  from  June  to  the  end  of 
September.  Picking  off  the  larvae  and  beetles,  or  shaking 
them  into  receptacles,  appears  to  be  the  only  remedy." 

Peter  Henderson,  in  his  valuable  book,  "Gardening  for 
Profit,"  figures  this  insect  and  its  larvae  accurately,  and 
says:  "Whenever  the  eggs  or  larvae  appear,  cut  and  burn 
the  plants  as  long  as  any  traces  of  the  insect  are  seen.  This 
must  be  done  if  it  destroys  every  vestige  of  vegetation." 
He  and  other  authorities  speak  of  the  advantage  of  cooping 
a  hen  and  chickens  in  the  bed.  Most  emphatically  would 
I  recommend  this  latter  course,  for  I  have  tried  it  with  vari 
ous  vegetables.  Active  broods  of  little  chickens  here  and 
there  in  the  garden  are  the  best  of  insecticides,  and  pay  for 
themselves  twice  over  in  this  service  alone. 


THE   KITCHEN-GARDEN  135 

We  will  next  speak  of  the  onion,  because  it  is  so  hardy 
that  the  earlier  it  is  planted  in  spring  the  better.  Indeed, 
I  have  often,  with  great  advantage,  sown  the  seed  on  light 
soils  the  first  of  September,  and  wintered  over  the  young 
plants  in  the  open  ground.  Nature  evidently  intended  the 
onion  for  humanity  in  general,  for  she  has  endowed  the 
plant  with  the  power  to  flourish  from  the  tropics  to  the  cold 
est  limit  of  the  temperate  zone. 

While  onions  are  grown  in  all  sorts  of  careless  ways,  like 
other  vegetables,  it  is  by  far  the  best  plan  to  select  a  space 
for  an  annual  and  permanent  bed,  just  as  we  do  for  aspara 
gus.  Unlike  most  other  crops,  the  onion  does  not  require 
change  of  ground,  but  usually  does  better  on  the  same  soil 
for  an  indefinite  number  of  years.  Therefore  I  would  advise 
that  upon  the  Home  Acre  the  onion,  like  the  asparagus  bed, 
should  be  made  with  a  view  to  permanence. 

Not  much  success  can  be  hoped  for  on  rough,  poor  land. 
The  onion,  like  the  asparagus  bed,  should  be  made  and 
maintained  with  some  care.  If  possible,  select  a  light, 
well-drained,  but  not  dry  plot.  Make  the  soil  rich,  deep, 
mellow,  to  the  depth  of  twenty  inches,  taking  out  all  stones, 
roots,  etc. ;  cover  the  land  with  at  least  six  inches  of  good 
strong  barnyard  manure.  This  should  be  done  in  the 
autumn.  Sow  the  ground  white  with  salt,  as  in  the  case 
of  asparagus,  and  then  mingle  these  fertilizers  thoroughly 
with  the  soil,  by  forking  or  plowing  it  at  once,  leaving  the 
surface  as  rough  as  possible,  so  that  the  frost  can  penetrate 
deeply.  Just  as  soon  as  the  ground  is  dry  enough  to  work 
in  the  spring,  fork  or  plow  again,  breaking  every  lump  and 
raking  all  smooth,  so  that  the  surface  is  as  fine  as  the  soil 
in  a  hot-bed.  You  cannot  hope  for  much  in  heavy,  lumpy 
ground.  Sow  at  least  three  seeds  to  the  inoh  in  a  shallow 
drill  one  inch  deep,  and  spat  the  earth  firmly  over  the  seed 
with  the  back  of  a  spade  or  with  your  hand.  In  subsequent 
culture  little  more  is  required  than  keeping  the  mere  surface 
stirred  with  a  hoe,  and  the  rows  clean  of  weeds.  Onions  are 
not  benefited  by  deep  stirring  of  the  soil,  but  the  surface, 


136  THE   HOME   ACRE 

from  the  start,  should  be  kept  clean  and  scarified  an  inch 
or  two  deep  between  the  rows  during  the  growing  season. 
I  prefer  to  have  my  onions  growing  at  the  rate  of  one  or 
two  to  every  inch  of  row,  for  I  do  not  like  large  bulbs.  I 
think  that  moderate-sized  onions  are  better  for  the  table. 
Those  who  value  largeness  should  thin  out  the  plants  to 
three  or  four  inches  apart;  but  even  in  the  market  there  is 
less  demand  for  large,  coarse  onions.  When  the  tops  begin 
to  fall  over  from  their  own  weight,  in  August  or  September, 
leave  them  to  mature  and  ripen  naturally.  When  the  tops 
begin  to  dry  up,  pull  them  from  the  soil,  let  them  dry  thor 
oughly  in  the  sun,  and  then  spread  them  thinly  in  a  dry  loft 
till  there  is  danger  of  their  freezing.  Even  there  they  will 
keep  better,  if  covered  deeply  with  straw,  hay,  etc.,  than  in 
'a  damp  cellar.  Wherever  the  air  is  damp  and  a  little  too 
warm,  onions  will  speedily  start  to  grow  again,  and  soon 
become  worthless.  After  the  crop  has  been  taken,  the 
ground  should  be  treated  as  at  first — thoroughly  enriched 
and  pulverized  late  in  autumn,  and  left  to  lie  in  a  rough 
state  during  the  winter,  then  prepared  for  planting  as  early 
as  possible.  I  prefer  March  sowing  of  the  seed  to  April, 
and  April,  by  far,  to  May.  In  England  they  try  to  plant 
in  February.  Indeed,  as  I  have  said,  I  have  had  excellent 
success  by  sowing  the  seed  early  in  September  on  light  soils, 
and  letting  the  plants  grow  during  all  the  mild  days  oi  fall, 
winter,  and  early  spring.  By  this  course  we  have  onions  fit 
for  the  table  and  market  the  following  May.  In  this  lati 
tude  they  need  the  protection  of  a  little  coarse  litter  from 
December  1  to  about  the  middle  of  March.  Only  the  very 
severest  frost  injures  them.  Most  of  us  have  seen  onions, 
overlooked  in  the  fall  gathering,  growing  vigorously  as  soon 
as  the  thaws  began  in  spring.  This  fact  contains  all  the  hint 
we  need  in  wintering  over  the  vegetable  in  the  open  ground. 
If  the  seed  is  sown  late  in  September,  the  plants  do  not 
usually  acquire  sufficient  strength  in  this  latitude  to  resist 
the  frost.  It  is  necessary,  therefore,  to  secure  our  mam  crop 
by  very  early  spring  sowings,  and  it  may  be  said  here  that 


THE   KITCHEN-GARDEN  187 

after  the  second  thorough  pulverization  of  the  soil  in  spring, 
the  ground  will  be  in  such  good  condition  that,  if  well  en 
riched  and  stirred  late  in  autumn,  it  will  only  need  levelling 
down  and  smoothing  off  before  the  spring  sowing.  Onions 
appear  to  do  best  on  a  compact  soil,  if  rich,  deep,  and  clean. 
It  is  the  surface  merely  that  needs  to  be  stirred  lightly  and 
frequently. 

If  young  green  onions  with  thin,  succulent  tops  are  de 
sired  very  early  in  spring,  it  will  be  an  interesting  experi 
ment  to  sow  the  seed  the  latter  part  of  August  or  early 
in  September.  Another  method  is  to  leave  a  row  of  onions 
in  the  garden  where  they  ripened.  When  the  autumn  rains 
begin,  they  will  start  to  grow  again.  The  winter  will  not 
harm  them,  and  even  in  April  there  will  be  a  strong  growth 
of  green  tops.  The  seed  stalk  should  be  picked  off  as  soon 
as  it  appears  in  spring,  or  else  the  whole  strength  will  speed 
ily  go  to  the  formation  of  seed. 

It  should  be  remembered  that  good  onions  can  not  be 
produced  very  far  to  the  south  by  sowing  the  small  gun 
powder-like  seed.  In  our  own  and  especially  in  warmer 
climates  a  great  advantage  is  secured  by  employing  what 
are  known  as  "onion  sets."  These  are  produced  by  sowing 
the  ordinary  black  seed  very  thickly  on  light  poor  land. 
Being  much  crowded,  and  not  having  much  nutriment,  the 
seed  develop  into  little  onions  from  the  size  of  a  pea  to 
that  of  a  walnut,  the  smaller  the  better,  if  they  are  solid 
and  plump.  These,  pressed  or  sunk,  about  three  inches 
apart,  into  rich  garden  soil  about  an  inch  deep,  just  as  soon 
as  the  frost  is  out,  make  fine  bulbs  by  the  middle  of  June. 
For  instance,  we  had  in  our  garden  plenty  of  onions  three 
inches  in  diameter  from  these  little  sets,  while  the  seed, 
sown  at  the  same  time,  will  not  yield  good  bulbs  before 
August.  There  is  but  little  need  of  raising  these  sets,  for 
it  is  rather  difficult  to  keep  them  in  good  condition  over 
the  winter.  Any  seedsman  will  furnish  them,  and  they  are 
usually  on  sale  at  country  stores.  Three  or  four  quarts,  if 
in  good  condition,  will  supply  a  family  abundantly,  and 


138  THE   HOME   ACRE 

leave  many  to  be  used  dry  during  the  autumn.  Insist  on 
plump  little  bulbs.  If  you  plant  them  early,  as  you  should, 
you  will  be  more  apt  to  get  good  sets.  Many  neglect  the 
planting  till  the  sets  are  half  dried  up,  or  so  badly  sprouted 
as  to  be  welinigh  worthless.  They  usually  come  in  the  form 
of  white  and  yellow  sets,  and  I  plant  an  equal  number 
of  each. 

The  chief  insect  enemies  are  onion  maggots,  the  Iarv89 
of  the  onion  fly.  These  bore  through  the  outer  leaf  and 
down  into  the  bulb,  which  they  soon  destroy.  I  know  of 
no  remedy  but  to  pull  up  the  yellow  and  sickly  plants, 
and  burn  them  and  the  pests  together.  The  free  use  of  salt 
in  the  fall,  and  a  light  top-dressing  of  wood- ashes  at  the 
time  of  planting,  tend  to  subdue  these  insects;  but  the  best 
course  is  prevention  by  deeply  cultivating  and  thoroughly 
enriching  in  the  fall,  leaving  the  ground  rough  and  uneven 
for  the  deep  action  of  frost,  and  by  sowing  the  seed  very 
early  in  spring.  I  have  found  that  the  insect  usually  attacks 
late-sown  and  feeble  plants.  If  the  maggot  were  in  my  gar 
den,  I  should  use  the  little  sets  only. 

Some  special  manures  have  been  employed  in  attain 
ing  the  greatest  success  with  this  vegetable.  In  England, 
pigeon-dung  and  the  cleanings  of  the  pigsty  are  exten 
sively  employed.  In  this  country  the  sweepings  of  the  hen 
roost  are  generally  recommended.  It  should  be  remembered 
that  all  these  are  strong  agents,  and  if  brought  in  contact 
with  the  roots  of  any  vegetable  while  in  a  crude,  undiluted 
state,  burn  like  fire,  especially  in  our  climate.  What  can 
be  done  in  safety  in  England  will  not  answer  under  our 
vivid  sun  and  in  our  frequent  droughts.  These  strong  fer 
tilizers  could  be  doubled  in  value  as  well  as  bulk  by  being 
composted  with  sods,  leaves,  etc.,  and  then,  after  having 
been  mixed,  allowed  to  decay  thoroughly.  Then  the  com 
post  can  be  used  with  great  advantage  as  a  top-dressing 
directly  over  the  drills  when  either  sets  or  seeds  are  planted. 
The  spring  rains  will  carry  the  richness  from  the  surface  to 
the  roots,  and  insure  a  very  vigorous  growth.  When  the 


THE   KITCHEN-GARDEN  139 

compost  named  in  the  early  part  of  this  paper  is  used,  I  sow 
it  thickly  in  the  drill,  draw  a  pointed  hoe  through  once 
more,  to  mingle  the  fertilizer  with  the  soil,  and  then  forth 
with  sow  the  seeds  or  put  in  the  sets  one  inch  deep;  and 
the  result  is  immediate  and  vigorous  growth.  Wood- ashes 
and  bone-dust  are  excellent  fertilizers,  and  should  be  sown 
on  the  surface  on  the  row  as  soon  as  planted,  and  gradually 
worked  in  by  weeding  and  cultivation  during  the  growing 
season.  Manure  from  the  pigsty,  wherein  weeds,  litter, 
sods,  muck,  etc.,  have  been  thrown  freely  during  the  sum 
mer,  may  be  spread  broadcast  over  the  onion  bed  in  the 
autumn,  and  worked  in  deeply,  like  the  product  of  the  barn 
yard.  The  onion  bed  can  scarcely  be  made  too  rich  as  long 
as  the  manure  is  not  applied  in  its  crude,  unfermented  state 
at  the  time  of  planting.  Then,  if  the  seed  is  put  in  very 
early,  it  grows  too  strongly  and  quickly  for  insects  to  do 
much  damage. 

Varieties, — Thompson  in  his  English  work  names  nine 
teen  varieties  with  many  synonyms;  Henderson  offers  the 
seed  of  thirteen  varieties;  Gregory,  of  seventeen  kinds. 
There  is  no  need  of  our  being  confused  by  this  latitude 
of  choice.  We  find  it  in  the  great  majority  of  fruits  and 
vegetables  offered  by  nurserymen  and  seedsmen.  Each  of 
the  old  varieties  that  have  survived  the  test  of  years  has 
certain  good  qualities  which  make  it  valuable,  especially  in 
certain  localities.  Many  of  the  novelties  in  vegetables,  as 
among  fruits,  will  soon  disappear;  a  few  will  take  their 
place  among  the  standard  sorts.  In  the  case  of  the  kitchen, 
as  well  as  in  the  fruit,  garden,  I  shall  give  the  opinion  of 
men  who  have  a  celebrity  as  wide  as  the  continent  for 
actual  experience,  and  modestly  add  occasionally  some 
views  of  my  own  which  are  the  result  of  observation. 

As  a  choice  for  the  home-garden,  Mr.  Henderson  recom 
mends  the  following  varieties  of  onions :  Extra  Early  Bed, 
Yellow  Globe  Danvers,  White  Portugal  or  Silver  Skin,  and 
Southport  Yellow  Globe.  Mr.  Joseph  Harris,  the  well-known 

and  practical  author:  Yellow  Danvers,  Extra  Early  Large 
21— ROE— XI  J 


140  THE   HOME    ACRE 

Bed,  and  White  Globe.  Mr.  J.  J.  H.  Gregory:  New  Queen, 
Early  Yellow  Acker,  Yellow  Danvers,  Early  Eed  Globe 
Danvers,  Large  Eed  Wethersfield.  They  all  recommend 
onion  sets.  The  Queen  onion  is  quite  distinct.  For  the 
home  table,  where  earliness,  as  well  as  quality,  size  and 
quantity  is  desired,  I  think  the  Queen  deserves  a  place. 
It  is  admirably  fitted  for  pickling.  I  have  tried  all  the 
varieties  named,  with  good  success,  and  grown  some  of 
the  largest  kinds  to  six  inches  in  diameter. 


THE  KITCHEN-GARDEN  141 


THE   KITCHEN-GARDEN  (concluded) 

IN  the  last  chapter  I  dwelt  somewhat  at  length  on  two. 
vegetables  for  which  thorough  and  enduring  prepara 
tion  is  profitable.  There  is  one  other  very  early  garden 
product  which  requires  our  attention  during  the  first  warm 
days  of  spring — rhubarb;  sold  in  some  instances  under  the 
name  of  "wine-plant."  Wine  is  made  from  the  juicy  stalks, 
but  it  is  an  unwholesome  beverage.  The  people  call  rhu 
barb  "pie-plant;"  and  this  term  suggests  its  best  and  most 
common  use,  although  when  cooked  as  if  it  were  a  fruit, 
it  is  very  grateful  at  a  season  when  we  begin  to  crave  the 
subacid  in  our  food. 

Its  cultivation  is  very  simple.  Those  who  propose  to 
produce  it  largely  for  market  will  find  it  to  their  advantage 
to  raise  this  plant  from  the  seed;  but  for  the  Home  Acre 
enough  plants  can  be  procured,  at  a  moderate  cost,  from 
almost  any  nurseryman.  In  this  instance,  also,  thorough 
preparation  of  the  soil  is  essential,  for  the  rhubarb  bed, 
under  good  care,  will  last  eight  or  ten  years.  A  rich,  deep, 
clean,  warm  soil  is  the  chief  essential.  It  belongs  to  that 
class  of  vegetables  known  as  "gross  feeders."  During  the 
first  year,  however,  I  would  apply  the  fertilizer  directly 
to  the  hills  or  plants.  These  are  obtained  by  dividing  the 
old  roots,  which  may  be  cut  to  pieces  downward  so  as  to 
leave  a  single  bud  or  "eye"  surmounting  a  long  tapering 
portion  of  root.  Bach  division  will  make  a  new,  vigorous 
plant,  which  should  be  set  out  so  that  the  bud  or  crown  is 
three  inches  below  the  surface  in  light  soils,  and  two  inches 


142  THE   HOME   ACRE 

in  heavy  soils.  The  plants  should  be  four  feet  apart  each 
way,  and  two  or  three  shovelfuls  of  rich  compost  worked 
into  the  soil  where  the  plant  is  to  stand.  You  cannot  make 
the  ground  too  rich;  only  remember  that  in  this,  as  in  all 
other  instances,  light,  fermenting  manures  should  not  be 
brought  into  immediate  contact  with  the  roots.  Plant  in 
eithe:.1  autumn  or  spring.  In  this  latitude  and  southward 
I  should  prefer  autumn;  northward,  perhaps  spring  is  the 
best  season.  Keep  the  intervening  ground  clean  and  mel 
low,  and  pull  no  stalks  the  first  year,  unless  it  be  in  the  au 
tumn  if  the  plants  have  become  very  strong.  In  the  fall, 
when  the  foliage  has  died  down,  cover  the  crowns  with  two 
or  three  shovelfuls  of  rich  manure — any  kind  will  do  in  this 
instance — and  work  in  a  heavy  top-dressing  all  over  the 
ground  early  in  spring.  Unless  seed  is  required,  always 
cut  down  the  seed-stalks  as  soon  as  they  appear.  The  best 
early  variety  is  the  Linnaeus.  The  Victoria  is  a  little  later, 
but  much  larger,  and  is  the  kind  that  I  have  usually  grown. 

Badish-seed  may  be  sown  one  inch  deep  as  soon  as  the 
ground  is  dry  enough  in  spring,  and  if  the  vegetable  is  a 
favorite,  the  sowing  may  be  repeated  every  two  weeks. 
A  common  error  is  to  sow  the  seed  too  thickly.  A  warm, 
rich  soil  is  all  that  is  necessary  to  secure  a  crop. 

What  has  been  said  about  radishes  applies  equally  to 
early  turnips,  with  the  exception  that  the  plants  when  three 
inches  high  should  be  thinned  so  as  to  stand  four  inches 
apart.  The  ground  for  these  vegetables  should  be  very 
rich,  so  as  to  secure  a  very  rapid  growth;  for  otherwise 
they  are  attacked  by  a  little  white  worm  which  soon  renders 
them  unfit  for  use.  Mr.  Harris  recommends  the  following 
varieties  of  early  radishes,  and  his  selection  coincides  with 
my  own  experience:  Hound  Scarlet  Turnip,  French  Break 
fast,  Hose  (olive-shaped),  Long  Scarlet  Short-top.  Winter 
radishes:  California  Mammoth  White,  and  Chinese  Rose. 
For  spring  sowing  of  turnips,  Mr.  Henderson  recommends 
Bed-top  Strap-leaf,  and  Early  Flat  Dutch.  The  earlier  they 
are  sown  the  better. 


THE  KITCHEN-GARDEN  143 

Beets — a  much  more  valuable  vegetable — require  similar 
treatment  The  ground  should  be  clean,  well  pulverized, 
and  very  rich.  I  prefer  to  sow  the  seed  the  first  week  in 
April,  unless  the  soil  is  frozen,  or  very  cold  and  wet.  The 
seed  may  be  sown,  however,  at  any  time  to  the  first  of  July; 
but  earliness  is  usually  our  chief  aim.  I  sow  two  inches 
deep  and  thickly,  pressing  the  soil  firmly  over  the  seed. 
Let  the  rows  be  about  fifteen  inches  apart.  Referring  to 
the  manure  which  had  been  left  to  decay  in  a  sheltered 
place  until  it  became  like  fine  dry  powder,  let  me  say  here 
that  I  have  always  found  it  of  greater  advantage  to  sow  it 
with  the  beet-seed  and  kindred  vegetables.  My  method  is 
to  open  the  drill  along  the  garden-line  with  a  sharp-pointed 
hoe,  and  scatter  the  fertilizer  in  the  drill  until  the  soil  is 
quite  blackened  by  it;  then  draw  the  pointed  hoe  through 
once  more,  to  mingle  the  powdery  manure  with  the  soil  and 
to  make  the  drill  of  an  even  depth;  then  sow  the  seed  at 
once.  This  thoroughly  decayed  stable-manure  has  become 
the  best  of  plant- food;  it  warms  the  ground,  and  carries  the 
germinating  seed  and  young  plants  with  vigor  through 
the  first  cold,  wet  weeks. 

In  the  home  garden  there  are  several  reasons  for  sowing 
beet-seed  thickly.  Unfavorable  weather  and  insects  will  be 
less  apt  to  cause  a  thin,  broken  stand  of  plants.  In  order  to 
produce  good  roots,  however,  the  plants  should  be  thinned 
out  so  as  to  stand  eventually  three  or  four  inches  apart. 
I  do  not  advise  very  large,  coarse  roots  for  the  table.  For 
home  use  I  think  only  three  varieties  are  essential.  The 
Egyptian  Turnip  Beet  is  the  best  very  early  variety,  and 
can  be  planted  closely,  as  it  has  a  small  top;  the  Bassano 
is  next  in  earliness,  and  requires  more  room;  the  Early 
Blood  Turnip  is  the  best  for  a  general  crop  and  winter  use. 
The  beet  is  a  root  which  deteriorates  rapidly  from  age;  I 
therefore  advise  that  the  seed  of  the  winter  supply  be  sown 
the  last  of  June  or  first  of  July  in  our  latitude. 

Parsnips  should  be  sown  at  the  same  time  with  early 
beets  and  in  the  same  way,  with  the  exception  that  the  seed 


144  THE   HOME   ACRE 

should  be  covered  only  an  inch  deep.  I  doubt  whether 
there  are  any  marked  distinctions  in  variety,  and  would 
advise  that  only  the  Long  Smooth  or  Hollow-crowned 
be  sown. 

The  carrot  is  not  quite  so  hardy  as  the  parsnip,  and  the 
seed  may  be  sown  a  week  or  two  later,  or  indeed  at  any 
time  up  to  the  middle  of  June.  Its  culture  and  treatment 
are  precisely  like  those  of  the  parsnip;  but  the  roots  should 
be  gathered  and  stored  before  a  severe  frost  occurs.  For 
home  use  a  short  row  of  the  Early  Horn  will  answer;  for 
the  general  crop,  sow  the  Long  Orange. 

Vegetable-oyster,  or  salsify,  is  another  root-crop  which 
may  be  treated  precisely  like  the  parsnip,  and  the  seed  sown 
at  the  same  time.  The  seed  should  be  sown  in  a  deep,  rich, 
mellow  soil,  which  is  all  the  better  for  being  prepared  in 
autumn.  Plant,  as  early  in  April  as  possible,  in  the  same 
manner  as  described  for  beets,  thin  out  to  four  inches  apart, 
and  keep  the  soil  clean  and  mellow  throughout  the  entire 
season;  for  this  vegetable  grows  until  the  ground  freezes. 
There  is  only  one  variety. 

The  pea  is  another  crop  which  may  be  put  into  the 
ground  as  soon  as  the  frost  is  out — the  earlier  the  better,  if 
the  smooth,  hardy  varieties  are  sown.  There  are  so  many 
varieties  that  the  novice  to-day  may  well  be  excused  for 
perplexity  in  choice.  Thompson,  the  English  authority, 
gives  forty  kinds,  and  one  hundred  and  forty-eight  syno 
nyms.  Mr.  Gregory  recommends  the  American  Wonder, 
Bliss's  Abundance,  Bliss's  Ever-bearing,  McLean's  Ad 
vancer,  Yorkshire  Hero,  Stratagem,  and  Champion  of  Eng 
land.  Mr.  Henderson's  list  includes  Henderson's  First  of 
All,  American  Wonder,  Bliss's  Abundance,  Champion  of 
England,  and  Pride  of  the  Market.  Mr.  Harris  in  his  cata 
logue  marks  first  and  best,  American  Wonder,  and  also 
says,  "For  the  main  crop  there  is  nothing  better  than  the 
Champion  of  England."  My  own  experience  would  lead 
me  to  plant  the  Tom  Thumb  either  just  before  the  ground 
froze  in  the  fall,  or  as  early  in  March  as  possible.  It  is 


THE   KITCHEN-GARDEN  145 

almost  perfectly  hardy,  and  gives  me  the  earliest  picking. 
I  should  also  plant  Henderson's  First  of  All  as  soon  as  the 
frost  was  out,  on  a  warm,  well-drained  soil.  For  second 
crops,  American  Wonder  and  Premium  Gem;  and  for  the 
main  and  most  satisfactory  crop  of  all,  Champion  of  Eng 
land.  The  Champion  requires  brush  as  a  support,  for  it 
grows  from  four  to  six  feet  high;  but  it  is  well  worth  the 
trouble.  I  plant  the  other  kinds  named  because  they  are 
much  earlier,  and  so  dwarf  as  to  need  no  brush;  they 
are  also  productive,  and  excellent  in  quality  if  not  left  to 
grow  too  old.  For  the  dwarf  kinds  the  soil  cannot  be  too 
rich,  and  the  warmer  the  ground  and  exposure,  the  earlier 
the  crop.  For  the  tall  late  sorts  the  soil  may  easily  be  made 
too  fertile;  they  should  also  be  planted  in  cooler,  moister, 
and  heavier  ground.  In  the  case  of  the  dwarfs  I  put  a  fer 
tilizer  in  with  the  seed  as  I  have  already  explained.  Cover 
the  dwarfs  about  two  and  a  half  inches  deep,  and  the  tall 
late  sorts  from  three  to  four  inches  according  to  the  nature 
of  the  soil.  Plant  the  Champion  of  England  every  ten  days 
until  the  middle  of  June,  and  thus  secure  a  succession 
of  the  best  of  all. 

We  all  know  how  numerous  have  been  the  varieties  of 
potato  introduced  into  this  country  of  late  years — many 
kinds  sent  out  at  first  at  the  rate  of  one  or  more  dollars  per 
pound.  I  amuse  myself  by  trying  several  of  these  novelties 
(after  they  become  cheap)  every  year,  and  one  season  raised 
very  early  crops  of  excellent  potatoes  from  the  Vanguard 
and  Pearl  of  Savoy.  The  Early  Eose  and  Early  Vermont 
have  long  been  favorites.  They  resemble  each  other  very 
closely.  I  have  had  excellent  success  with  the  Beauty  of 
Hebron.  It  is  a  good  plan  to  learn  what  varieties  succeed 
well  in  our  own  neighborhood,  and  then  to  plant  chiefly 
of  such  kinds;  we  may  then  add  to  our  zest  by  trying  a  few 
novelties. 

Not  only  much  reading  on  the  subject,  but  also  my  own 
observation,  and  the  general  law  that  "like  produces  like," 
lead  me  to  indorse  the  practice  of  planting  large  tubers  cut 


146  THE   HOME   ACRE 

into  sets  containing  one  or  more  eyes,  or  buds.  The  eye  of 
a  potato  is  a  bud  from  which  the  plant  grows;  and  the 
stronger  backing  it  has,  the  stronger  and  more  able  is 
the  plant  to  evolve  new  fine  tubers  through  the  action  of 
its  roots  and  foliage.  A  small  potato  has  many  immature 
buds,  which  as  a  rule  produce  feeble  plants. 

The  potato  will  grow  on  almost  any  soil;  but  a  dry, 
rich,  sandy  loam  gives  the  best,  if  not  the  largest,  yield. 
I  do  not  think  the  potato  can  be  planted  too  early  after  the 
ground  is  fit  to  work.  One  spring  I  was  able  to  get  in  sev 
eral  rows  the  15th  of  March,  and  I  never  had  a  finer  yield. 
1  observe  that  Mr.  Harris  strongly  indorses  this  plan. 

Nearly  every  one  has  his  system  of  planting.  There  is 
no  necessity  for  explaining  these  methods.  I  will  briefly 
give  mine,  for  what  it  is  worth.  I  prefer  warm,  well- 
drained  soils.  Plow  deeply  in  autumn,  also  in  spring; 
harrow  and  pulverize  the  ground  as  completely  as  possi 
ble;  then  open  the  furrows  with  the  same  heavy  plow, 
sinking  it  to  the  beam,  and  going  twice  in  the  furrow. 
This,  of  course,  would  make  too  deep  a  trench  in  which 
to  place  the  sets,  but  the  soil  has  been  deepened  and  pul 
verized  at  least  fourteen  inches.  A  man  next  goes  along 
with  a  cart  or  barrow  of  well-decayed  compost  (not  very 
raw  manure),  which  is  scattered  freely  in  the  deep  furrows; 
then  through  these  a  corn-plow  is  run,  to  mingle  the  fertil 
izer  with  the  soil.  By  this  course  the  furrows  are  partially 
filled  with  loose,  friable  soil  and  manure,  and  they  average 
four  or  five  inches  in  depth.  The  sets  are  planted  at  once 
eight  inches  apart,  the  eye  turned  upward,  and  the  cat  part 
down.  The  sets  are  then  covered  with  three  or  four  inches 
of  tine  soil,  not  with  sods  and  stones.  When  the  plants  are 
two  or  three  inches  high,  they  receive  their  first  hoeing, 
which  merely  levels  the  ground  evenly.  The  next  cultiva 
tion  is  performed  by  both  corn- plow  and  hoe.  In  the  final 
working  I  do  not  permit  a  sharp-slanting  slope  from  the 
plants  downward,  so  that  the  rain  is  kept  from  reaching 
the  roots.  There  is  a  broad  hilling  up,  so  as  to  have  a 


THE   KITCHEN-GARDEN  147 

slope  inward  toward  the  plants,  as  well  as  away  from  them. 
This  method,  with  the  deep,  loosened  soil  beneath  the 
plants,  secures  against  drought,  while  the  decayed  fertil 
izers  give  a  strong  and  immediate  growth. 

Of  course  we  have  to  fight  the  potato,  or  Colorado,  beetle 
during  the  growing  season.  This  we  do  with  Paris  green 
applied  in  liquid  form,  a  heaping  teaspoonful  to  a  pail  of 
water. 

In  taking  up  and  storing  potatoes  a  very  common  error 
is  fallen  into.  Sometimes  even  growing  tubers  are  so  ex 
posed  to  sun  and  light  that  they  become  green.  In  this 
condition  they  are  not  only  worthless,  but  poisonous.  If 
long  exposed  to  light  after  being  dug,  the  solanine  principle, 
which  exists  chiefly  in  the  stems  and  leaves,  is  developed 
in  the  tubers.  The  more  they  are  in  the  light,  the  less 
value  they  possess,  until  they  become  worse  than  worth 
less.  They  should  be  dug,  if  possible,  on  a  dry  day, 
picked  up  promptly  and  carried  to  a  dry,  cool,  dark 
cellar.  If  stored  on  floors  of  outbuldings,  the  light  should 
be  excluded.  Potatoes  that  are  long  exposed  to  light  before 
the  shops  of  dealers  are  injured.  Barrels,  etc.,  containing 
them  should  be  covered;  if  spread  on  the  barn-floor,  or  in 
places  which  can  not  be  darkened,  throw  straw  or  some  other 
litter  over  them.  . 

•  There  is  no  occasion  to  say  much  about  lettuce.  It  is 
a  vegetable  which  any  one  can  raise  who  will  sow  the  seed 
a  quarter  of  an  inch  deep.  I  have  sowed  the  seed  in  Sep 
tember,  wintered  the  plants  over  in  cold-frames,  and  by 
giving  a  little  heat,  I  had  an  abundance  of  heads  to  sell 
in  February  and  March.  For  ordinary  home  uses  it  is  nec 
essary  only  to  sow  the  seed  on  a  warm,  rich  spot  as  soon  as 
the  frost  is  out,  and  you  will  quickly  have  plenty  of  tender 
foliage.  This  we  may  begin  to  thin  out  as  soon  as  the 
plants  are  three  or  four  inches  high,  until  a  foot  of  space 
is  left  between  the  plants,  which,  if  of  a  cabbage  variety, 
will  speedily  make  a  large,  crisp  head.  To  maintain  a  sup 
ply,  sowings  can  be  made  every  two  weeks  till  the  middle 


148  THE   HOME   ACRE 

of  August.  Hardy  plants,  which  may  be  set  out  like  cab 
bages,  are  to  be  obtained  in  March  and  April  from  nursery 
men.  Henderson  recommends  the  following  varieties:  Hen 
derson's  New  York,  Black-seeded  Simpson,  Salamander, 
and  All  the  Year  Round.  I  would  also  add  the  Black- 
seeded  Butter  Lettuce. 

We  have  now,  as  far  as  our  space  permits,  treated  of 
those  vegetables  which  should  be  planted  in  the  home  gar 
den  as  early  in  spring  as  possible.  It  is  true  the  reader  will 
think  of  other  sorts,  as  cabbage,  cauliflower,  spinach,  etc. 
To  the  professional  gardener  these  are  all-the-year-round 
vegetables.  If  the  amateur  becomes  so  interested  in  his 
garden  as  to  have  cold-frames  and  hot-beds,  he  will  learn 
from  more  extended  works  how  to  manage  these.  He  will 
winter  over  the  cabbage  and  kindred  vegetables  for  his 
earliest  supply,  having  first  sown  the  seed  in  September. 
I  do  not  take  the  trouble  to  do  this,  and  others  need  not, 
unless  it  is  a  source  of  enjoyment  to  them.  As  soon  as  the 
ground  is  fit  to  work  in  spring,  I  merely  write  to  some  trust 
worthy  dealer  in  plants  and  obtain  twenty-five  very  early 
cabbage,  and  twenty- five  second  early,  also  a  hundred  early 
cauliflower.  They  cost  little,  and  are  set  out  in  half  an  hour 
as  soon  as  the  ground  is  fit  to  work  in  spring.  I  usually 
purchase  my  tomato,  late  cabbage,  and  cauliflower,  celery 
and  egg-plants,  from  the  same  sources.  Cabbages  and  cauli 
flowers  should  be  set  out  in  rich  warm  soils,  free  from  shade, 
as  soon  as  the  frost  is  out.  After  that  they  need  only  fre 
quent  and  clean  culture  and  vigilant  watchfulness,  or  else 
many  will  fall  victims  to  a  dirty  brown  worm  which  usually 
cuts  the  stem,  and  leaves  the  plant  lying  on  the  ground. 
The  worm  can  easily  be  found  near  the  surface  the  moment 
it  begins  its  ravages,  and  the  only  remedy  I  know  is  to 
catch  and  kill  it  at  once.  In  this  latitude  winter  cabbage 
is  set  out  about  the  fourth  of  July.  I  pinch  off  half  the 
leaves  before  setting.  Good  seed,  deep  plowing  or  spading, 
rich  soil,  and  clean  culture  are  usually  the  only  requisites 
for  success.  Experience  and  consultation  of  the  books  and 


THE   KITCHEN-GARDEN  149 

catalogues  enable  me  to  recommend  the  Jersey  Wakefield 
for  first  early,  and  Henderson's  Summer  Cabbage  and  Win- 
ningstadt  as  second  early.  As  a  late  root  I  ask  for  nothing 
better  than  Premium  Flat  Dutch.  The  Savoy  is  the  best 
flavored  of  the  cabbage  tribe.  Henderson  recommends  the 
Netted  Savoy,  which  may  be  treated  like  other  late  cab 
bage. 

The  cauliflower  is  ranked  among  the  chief  delicacies  of 
the  garden,  and  requires  and  repays  far  more  attention  than 
cabbage.  Even  the  early  sorts  should  have  a  richer,  moister 
soil  than  is  required  for  very  early  cabbage.  I  advise  two 
plantings  in  spring,  of  first  and  second  early;  I  also  advise 
that  late  varieties  be  set  out  on  rich  ground  the  last  of  June. 
As  with  cabbage,  set  out  the  plants  from  two  and  a  half  to 
three  feet  apart,  according  to  the  size  of  the  variety.  From 
trial  I  recommend  Early  Snowball,  Half -early  Paris,  and 
Large  Late  Algiers. 

Spinach  thrives  in  a  very  rich,  well-drained,  fine,  mellow 
soil.  I  prefer  a  sunny  slope;  but  this  is  not  necessary. 
Sow  the  seed  from  the  first  to  the  fifteenth  of  September, 
so  as  to  give  the  plants  time  to  become  half  grown  by  win 
ter.  Cover  the  seeds — three  to  an  inch — two  inches  deep, 
and  pack  the  ground  well  over  them;  let  the  rows  be  three 
inches  apart.  When  the  plants  are  three  inches  high,  thin 
out  to  three  inches  apart,  and  keep  the  soil  clean  and  mel 
low  about  them.  Just  before  hard  freezing  weather,  scatter 
about  three  inches  of  straw,  old  pea-vines,  or  some  light 
litter  over  the  whole  bed.  As  soon  as  the  days  begin  to 
grow  warm  in  spring,  and  hard  frost  ceases,  rake  this  off. 
The  hardy  vegetable  begins  to  grow  at  once,  and  should  be 
cut  for  use  so  as  to  leave  the  plants  finally  six  inches  apart, 
for  as  fast  as  space  is  given,  the  plants  fill  it  up.  By  those 
who  are  fond  of  spinach  it  may  be  sown  in  spring  as  soon 
as  the  frost  is  out.  It  quickly  runs  to  seed  in  hot  weather, 
and  thinnings  of  young  beets  may  take  its  place  where  space 
is  limited.  The  Round  or  Summer  is  good  for  fall  or  spring 
planting. 


150  THE   HOME   ACRE 

Those  who  need  much  instruction  in  regard  to  bush- 
beans  should  remain  in  the  city  and  raise  cats  in  their  paved 
back  yards.  We  shall  only  warn  against  planting  too  early 
— not  before  the  last  of  April  in  our  region.  It  does  not 
take  much  frost  to  destroy  the  plants,  and  if  the  soil  is  cold 
and  wet,  the  beans  decay  instead  of  coming  up.  If  one  has 
a  warm,  sheltered  slope,  he  may  begin  planting  the  middle  of 
April.  As  a  rule,  however,  bush- beans  may  be  planted  from 
the  first  of  May  till  the  middle  of  J  uly,  in  order  to  keep  up 
a  succession.  Cover  the  first  seed  planted  one  inch  deep; 
later  plantings  two  inches  deep.  I  think  that  earliest  Red 
Valentine,  Black  Wax  or  Butter,  Golden  Wax,  and  the 
late  Refugee  are  all  the  varieties  needed  for  the  garden. 

The  delicious  pale  Lima  bean  requires  and  deserves 
more  attention.  I  have  always  succeeded  with  it,  and  this 
has  been  my  method:  I  take  a  warm,  rich,  but  not  dry 
piece  of  ground,  work  it  deeply  early  in  spring,  again 
the  first  of  May,  so  that  the  sun's  rays  may  penetrate 
and  sweeten  the  ground.  About  the  tenth  of  May  I  set 
the  poles  firmly  in  the  ground.  Bough  cedar-poles,  with 
the  stubs  of  the  branches  extending  a  little,  are  the  best. 
If  smooth  poles  are  used,  I  take  a  hatchet,  and  beginning 
at  the  butt,  I  make  shallow,  slanting  cuts  downward,  so  as 
to  raise  the  bark  a  little.  These  slight  raisings  of  the  bark 
or  wood  serve  as  supports  to  the  clambering  vines.  After 
the  poles  are  in  the  ground  I  make  a  broad,  flat  hill  of  loose 
soil  and  a  little  of  the  black  powdery  fertilizer.  I  then  allow 
the  sun  to  warm  and  dry  the  hill  a  few  days,  and  if  the 
weather  is  fine  and  warm,  I  plant  the  seed  about  the 
fifteenth,  merely  pressing  the  eye  of  the  bean  downward 
one  inch.  If  planted  lower  than  this  depth,  they  usually 
decay.  If  it  is  warm  and  early,  the  seed  may  be  planted  by 
the  fifth  of  May.  After  planting,  examine  the  seed  often. 
If  the  beans  are  decaying  instead  of  coming  up,  plant  over 
again,  and  repeat  this  process  until  there  are  three  or  four 
strong  plants  within  three  or  four  inches  of  each  pole.  Let 
the  hills  be  five  feet  apart  each  way,  hoe  often,  and  do 


THE   KITCHEN-GARDEN  151 

not  tolerate  a  weed.  The  Long  White  Lima  and  Dreer's 
Improved  Lima  are  the  only  sorts  needed. 

The  Indians  in  their  succotash  taught  us  long  ago  to 
associate  corn  with  beans,  and  they  hit  upon  a  dish  not  sur 
passed  by  modern  invention.  This  delicious  vegetable  is 
as  easily  raised  as  its  "hail-fellow  well  met,"  the  bean. 
We  have  only  to  plant  it  at  the  same  time  in  hills  from 
three  to  four  feet  apart,  and  cover  the  seed  two  inches  deep. 
I  have  used  the  powdery  fertilizers  and  wood-ashes  in  the 
hill  to  great  advantage,  first  mingling  these  ingredients  well 
with  the  soil.  We  make  it  a  point  to  have  sweet-corn  for 
the  table  from  July  1  until  the  stalks  are  killed  by  frost 
in  October.  This  is  easily  managed  by  planting  different 
varieties,  and  continuing  to  plant  till  well  into  June.  Mr. 
Gregory  writes:  "For  a  succession  of  corn  for  family  use,  to 
be  planted  at  the  same  time,  I  would  recommend  Marble- 
head  Early,  Pratt's,  Crosley's,  Moore's,  Stowell's  Ever 
green,  and  Egyptian  Sweet."  Mr.  Harris  names  with  praise 
the  Minnesota  as  the  best  earliest,  and  Hickox  Improved  as 
an  exceedingly  large  and  late  variety.  Mr.  Henderson's 
list  is  Henderson  Sugar,  Hickox  Improved,  Egyptian,  and 
Stowell's  Evergreen.  Let  me  add  Burr's  Mammoth  and 
Squantum  Sugar — a  variety  in  great  favor  with  the  Squan- 
tum  Club,  and  used  by  them  in  their  famous  clam- bakes. 

The  cucumber,  if  grown  in  the  home  garden  and  used 
fresh,  is  not  in  league  with  the  undertaker.  The  seed  may 
be  planted  early  in  May,  and  there  are  many  ways  of  forcing 
and  hastening  the  yield.  I  have  had  cucumbers  very  early 
in  an  ordinary  hotbed.  Outdoors,  I  make  hills  in  warm  soil 
the  first  of  May,  mixing  a  little  of  my  favorite  fertilizer 
with  the  soil.  After  leaving  the  hill  for  a  day  or  two  to 
become  warm  in  the  sun,  I  sow  the  seed  in  a  straight  line 
for  fifteen  inches,  so  that  the  hoe  can  approach  them  closely. 
The  seed  is  covered  an  inch  deep,  and  the  soil  patted  down 
firmly.  It  is  possible  that  a  cold  storm  or  that  insects  may 
make  partial  planting  over  necessary;  if  so,  this  is  done 
promptly.  I  put  twenty  seeds  in  the  hill,  to  insure  against 


152  THE   HOME   ACRE 

loss.  For  a  succession  or  long-continued  crop,  plant  a  few 
hills  in  rich  moist  land  about  the  last  of  May.  The  young 
plants  always  run  a  gauntlet  of  insects,  and  a  little  striped 
bug  is  usually  their  most  deadly  enemy.  These  bugs  often 
appear  to  come  suddenly  in  swarms,  and  devour  everything 
before  you  are  aware  of  their  presence.  With  great  vigil 
ance  they  may  be  kept  off  by  hand,  for  their  stay  is  brief. 
I  would  advise  one  trial  of  a  solution  of  white  hellebore, 
a  tablespoonful  to  a  pail  of  water.  Paris  green — in  solu 
tion,  of  course — kills  them;  but  unless  it  is  very  weak,  it 
will  kill  or  stunt  the  plants  also.  My  musk  and  water 
melons  were  watered  by  too  strong  a  solution  of  Paris 
green  this  year,  and  they  never  recovered  from  it.  Perhaps 
the  best  preventive  is  to  plant  so  much  seed,  and  to  plant 
over  so  often,  that  although  the  insects  do  their  worst, 
plenty  of  good  plants  survive.  This  has  usually  been  my 
method.  When  the  striped  bug  disappears,  and  the  plants 
are  four  or  five  inches  high,  I  thin  out  to  four  plants  in  the 
hill.  When  they  come  into  bearing,  pick  off  all  the  fruit 
fit  for  use,  whether  you  want  it  or  not.  If  many  are  allowed 
to  become  yellow  and  go  to  seed,  the  growth  and  productive 
ness  of  the  vines  are  checked.  The  Early  White  Spine  and 
Extra  Long  White  Spine  are  all  the  varieties  needed  for 
the  table.  For  pickling  purposes  plant  the  Green  Prolific 
on  moist  rich  land.  The  other  varieties  answer  quite  as 
well,  if  picked  before  they  are  too  large. 

The  cultivation  of  the  squash  is  substantially  the  same 
as  that  of  the  cucumber,  and  it  has  nearly  the  same  enemies 
to  contend  with.  Let  the  hills  of  the  bush  sorts  be  four  feet 
apart  each  way,  and  eight  feet  for  the  running  varieties. 
The  seed  is  cheap,  so  use  plenty,  and  plant  over  from  the 
first  to  the  twenty-fifth  of  May,  until  you  have  three  good 
strong  plants  to  the  hill.  Three  are  plenty,  so  thin  out  the 
plants,  when  six  or  seven  inches  high,  to  this  number,  and 
keep  the  ground  clean  and  mellow.  I  usually  raise  my 
running  squashes  among  the  corn,  giving  up  one  hill  to 
them  completely  every  seven  or  eight  feet  each  way.  Early 


THE   KITCHEN-GARDEN  153 

bush  sorts:  White  Bush  Scalloped,  Yellow  Bush  Scalloped. 
The  Perfect  Gem  is  good  for  both  summer  and  winter,  and 
should  be  planted  on  rich  soil,  six  feet  apart  each  way. 
The  Boston  Marrow  is  one  of  the  best  fall  sorts;  the  Hub- 
bard  and  Marblehead  are  the  best  winter  varieties. 

When  we  come  to  plant  musk-melons  we  must  keep  them 
well  away  from  the  two  above-named  vegetables,  or  else 
their  pollen  will  mix,  producing  very  disagreeable  hybrids. 
A  squash  is  very  good  in  its  way,  and  a  melon  is  much 
better;  but  if  you  grow  them  so  near  each  other  that  they 
become  '"alf  and  'alf,"  you  may  perhaps  find  pigs  that  will 
eat  them.  The  more  completely  the  melon-patch  is  by 
.itself,  the  better,  and  the  nearer  the  house  the  better;  for 
while  it  is  liable  to  all  the  insects  and  diseases  which  attack 
the  cucumber,  it  encounters,  when  the  fruit  is  mature,  a 
more  fatal  enemy  in  the  predatory  small  boy.  Choose  rich, 
warm,  but  not  dry  ground  for  musk-melons,  make~the  hills 
six  feet  apart  each  way,  and  treat  them  like  cucumbers, 
employing  an  abundance  of  seed.  As  soon  as  the  plants  are 
ready  to  run,  thin  out  so  as  to  leave  only  four  to  fruit. 
Henderson  recommends  Montreal  Market,  Hackensack,  and 
Netted  Gem.  Gregory:  Netted  Gem,  Boston  Pet,  Bay 
View,  Sill's  Hyrbid,  Casaba,  and  Ward's  Nectar.  He  also 
advocates  a  remarkable  novelty  known  as  the  "Banana." 
Harris:  Early  Christiana  and  Montreal  Market. 

Water-melons  should  be  planted  eight  feet  apart;  but 
if  one  has  not  a  warm,  sandy  soil,  I  do  not  advise  their 
culture.  The  time  of  planting  and  management  do  not  vary 
materially  from  those  of  the  musk  variety.  The  following 
kinds  will  scarcely  fail  to  give  satisfaction  where  they  can 
be  grown:  Phinney's  Early,  Black  Spanish,  Mammoth  Iron 
clad,  Mountain  Sprout,  Scaly  Bark,  and  Cuban  Queen. 

The  tomato  has  a  curious  history.  Native  of  South 
America  like  the  potato,  it  is  said  to  have  been  introduced 
into  England  as  early  as  1596.  Many  years  elapsed  before 
it  was  used  as  food,  and  the  botanical  name  given  to  it  was 
significant  of  the  estimation  in  which  it  was  held  by  our 


154  THE   HOME   ACRE 

forefathers.  It  was  called  Lycopersicum — a  compound  term 
meaning  wolf  and  peach;  indicating  that,  notwithstanding 
its  beauty,  it  was  regarded  as  a  sort  of  "Dead  Sea  fruit." 
The  Italians  first  dared  to  use  it  freely;  the  French  fol 
lowed;  and  after  eying  it  askance  as  a  novelty  for  unknown 
years,  John  Bull  ventured  to  taste,  and  having  survived, 
began  to  eat  with  increasing  gusto.  To  our  grandmothers 
in  this  land  the  ruby  fruit  was  given  as  "love-apples," 
which,  adorning  quaint  old  bureaus,  were  devoured  by 
dreamy  eyes  long  before  canning  factories  were  within  the 
ken  of  even  a  Yankee's  vision.  Now,  tomatoes  vie  with 
the  potato  as  a  general  article  of  food,  and  one  can  scarcely 
visit  a  quarter  of  the  globe  so  remote  but  he  will  find  that 
the  tomato-can  has  been  there  before  him.  Culture  of  the 
tomato  is  so  easy  that  one  year  I  had  bushels  of  the  finest 
fruit  from  plants  that  grew  here  and  there  by  chance.  Skill 
is  required  only  in  producing  an  early  crop ;  and  to  secure 
this  end  the  earlier  the  plants  are  started  in  spring,  the 
better.  Those  who  have  glass  will  experience  no  difficulty 
whatever.  The  seed  may  be  sown  in  a  greenhouse  as  early 
as  January,  and  the  plants  potted  when  three  inches  high, 
transferred  to  larger  pots  from  time  to  time  as  they  grow, 
and  by  the  middle  of  May  put  into  the  open  ground  full  of 
blossoms  and  immature  fruit.  Indeed,  plants  started  early 
in  the  fall  will  give  in  a  greenhouse  a  good  supply  all 
winter.  Tomatoes  also  grow  readily  in  hot-beds,  cold- 
frames,  or  sunny  windows.  We  can  usually  buy  well- 
forwarded  plants  from  those  who  raise  them  for  sale. 
If  these  are  set  out  early  in  May  on  a  sunny  slope,  they 
mature  rapidly,  and  give  an  early  yield.  The  tomato  is 
very  sensitive  to  frost,  and  should  not  be  in  the  open 
ground  before  danger  from  it  is  over.  Throughout  May 
we  may  find  plants  for  sale  everywhere.  If  we  desire  to 
try  distinct  kinds  with  the  least  trouble,  we  can  sow  the 
seed  about  May  1,  and  in  our  climate  enjoy  an  abundant 
yield  in  September,  or  before.  In  the  cool,  humid  climate 
of  England  the  tomato  is  usually  grown  en  espalier,  like  the 


THE   KITCHEN-GARDEN  155 

peach,  along  sunny  walls  and  fences,  receiving  as  careful 
a  summer  pruning  as  the  grape-vine.  With  us  it  is  usually 
left  to  sprawl  over  the  ground  at  will.  By  training  the 
vines  over  various  kinds  of  supports,  however,  they  may 
be  made  as  ornamental  as  they  are  useful.  The  ground  on 
which  they  grow  should  be  only  moderately  fertile,  or  else 
there  is  too  great  a  growth  of  vine  at  the  expense  of  fruit. 
This  is  especially  true  if  we  desire  an  early  yield,  and  in 
this  case  the  warmest,  driest  soil  is  necessary. 

But  comparatively  a  few  years  ago  the  tomato  consisted 
of  little  more  than  a  rind,  with  seeds  in  the  hollow  centre. 
Now,  the  only  varieties  worth  raising  cut  as  solid  as  a  mel 
low  pear.  The  following  is  Gregory's  list  of  varieties: 
Livingston's  Beauty,  Alpha,  Acme,  Canada  Victor,  Arling 
ton,  General  Grant.  I  will  add  Trophy  and  Mikado.  If  a 
yellow  variety  is  desired,  try  Golden  Trophy. 

If  the  tomato  needs  warm  weather  in  which  to  thrive, 
the  egg-plant  requires  that  both  days  and  nights  should  be 
hot.  It  is  an  East  Indiaman,  and  demands  curry  in  the 
way  of  temperature  before  it  loses  its  feeble  yellow  aspect 
and  takes  on  the  dark  green  of  vigorous  health.  My  method 
is  simply  this:  I  purchase  strong  potted  plants  between  the 
twentieth  of  May  and  the  first  of  June,  and  set  them  out  in 
a  rich,  warm  soil.  A  dozen  well-grown  plants  will  supply 
a  large  family  with  egg- fruit.  Of  course  one  can  start  the 
young  plants  themselves,  as  in  the  case  of  tomatoes;  but 
it  should  be  remembered  that  they  are  much  more  tender 
and  difficult  to  raise  than  is  the  tomato.  Plants  from  seed 
sown  in  the  open  ground  would  not  mature  in  our  latitude, 
as  a  rule.  The  best  plan  is  to  have  the  number  you  need 
grown  for  you  by  those  who  make  it  their  business.  Egg 
plants  are  choice  morsels  for  the  potato- beetle,  and  they 
must  be  watched  vigilantly  if  we  would  save  them.  There 
is  no  better  variety  than  the  New  York  Improved. 

The  pepper  is  another  hot-blooded  vegetable  that  shivers 
at  the  suggestion  of  frost.  It  is  fitting  that  it  should  be  a 
native  of  India.  Its  treatment  is  usually  the  same  as  that 


156  THE   HOME   ACRE 

of  the  egg-plant.  It  matures  more  rapidly,  however,  and 
the  seed  can  be  sown  about  the  middle  of  May,  half  an  inch 
deep,  in  rows  fifteen  inches  apart.  The  soil  should  be  rich 
and  warm.  When  the  plants  are  well  up,  they  should  be 
thinned  so  that  they  will  stand  a  foot  apart  in  the  row. 
The  usual  course,  however,  is  to  set  out  plants  which  have 
been  started  under  glass,  after  all  danger  from  frost  is  over. 
Henderson  recommends  New  Sweet  Spanish  and  Golden 
Dawn.  The  Large  Bell  is  a  popular  sort,  and  Cherry  Red 
very  ornamental. 

From  the  okra  is  made  the  famous  gumbo  soup,  which 
ever  calls  to  vision  a  colored  aunty  presiding  over  the  mys 
teries  of  a  Southern  dinner.  If  Aunt  Dinah,  so  well  known 
to  us  from  the  pages  of  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  could  have 
left  her  receipt  for  this  compound,  her  fame  might  have 
lasted  as  long  as  that  of  Mrs.  Stowe.  The  vegetable  furnish 
ing  this  glutinous,  nutritious,  and  wholesome  ingredient  is 
as  easily  raised  as  any  product  of  the  garden.  We  have 
only  to  sow  the  seed,  from  the  first  to  the  tenth  of  May, 
two  inches  deep,  and  let  the  plants  stand  from  two  to  three 
feet  apart  each  way,  in  order  to  have  an  abundant  supply. 
The  new  Dwarf  Prolific  is  about  the  best  variety. 

.Fall  turnips  are  so  easily  grown  that  they  require  but  few 
words.  They  are  valuable  vegetables  for  utilizing  space  in 
the  garden  after  early  crops,  as  peas,  beans,  potatoes,  etc., 
are  removed.  The  seed  of  ruta-baga,  or  Swedish  turnips, 
should  be  planted  earliest — from  the  twentieth  of  June  to 
the  tenth  of  July  in  our  latitude.  This  turnip  should  be 
sown  in  drills  two  feet  apart,  and  the  plants  thinned  to  eight 
inches  from  one  another.  It  is  very  hardy,  and  the  roots 
are  close-grained,  solid,  and  equally  good  for  the  table  and 
the  family  cow.  The  Yellow  Aberdeen  is  another  excellent 
variety,  which  may  be  sown  early  in  July,  and  treated  much 
the  same  as  the  foregoing.  The  Yellow  Stone  can  be  sown 
on  good  ground  until  the  fifteenth  of  July  in  any  good 
garden  soil,  and  the  plants  thinned  to  six  inches  apart. 
It  is  perhaps  the  most  satisfactory  of  all  the  turnip  tribe 


THE   KITCHEN-GARDEN  ^57 

both  for  table  use  and  stock.  The  Bed-top  Strap-leaf  may 
be  sown  anywhere  until  the  tenth  of  August.  It  is  a  gen 
eral  custom,  in  the  middle  of  July,  to  scatter  some  seed 
of  this  hardy  variety  among  the  corn:  hoe  it  in  lightly, 
and  there  is  usually  a  good  crop.  Every  vacant  spot  may 
be  utilized  by  incurring  only  the  slight  cost  of  the  seed 
and  the  sowing.  It  may  be  well,  perhaps,  to  remember  the 
advice  of  the  old  farmer  to  his  son.  He  said,  "Stub  your 
toe  and  spill  half  the  seed  before  sowing  it;  for  scattered 
broadcast  it  is  usually  much  too  thick."  If  this  proves 
true,  thin  out  the  plants  rigorously.  This  turnip  is  good 
for  table  and  stock  as  long  as  it  is  solid  and  crisp;  but  it 
grows  pithy  toward  spring.  There  are  other  kinds  well 
worth  a  trial. 

Perhaps  no  vegetable  is  more  generally  appreciated  than 
celery.  Like  asparagus,  it  was  once,  and  is  still  by  some, 
regarded  as  a  luxury  requiring  too  much  skill  and  labor  for 
the  ordinary  gardener.  This  is  a  mistake.  Few  vegetables 
in  my  garden  repay  so  amply  the  cost  of  production.  One 
can  raise  turnips  as  a  fall  crop  much  easier,  it  is  true;  but 
turnips  are  not  celery,  any  more  than  brass  is  gold.  Think 
of  enjoying  this  delicious  vegetable  daily  from  October  till 
April!  When  cooked,  and  served  on  toast  with  drawn  but 
ter  sauce,  it  is  quite  ambrosial.  In  every  garden  evolved 
beyond  the  cabbage  and  potato  phase  a  goodly  space  of  the 
best  soil  should  be  reserved  for  celery,  since  it  can  be  set 
out  from  the  first  to  the  twentieth  of  July  in  our  latitude; 
it  can  be  grown  as  the  most  valuable  of  the  second  crops, 
reoccupying  space  made  vacant  by  early  crops.  I  find  it 
much  easier  to  buy  my  plants,  when  ready  for  them,  than 
to  raise  them.  In  every  town  there  are  those  who  grow 
them  in  very  large  quantities,  and,  if  properly  packed, 
quickly  transported,  and  promptly  set  out  in  the  evening 
following  their  reception,  and  watered  abundantly,  they 
rarely  fail. 

There  are  decided  advantages,  however,  in  raising  our 
own  plants,  especially  if  midsummer  should  prove  dry  and 


158  THE   HOME   ACRE 

hot,  or  the  plants  must  be  long  in  transit.  When  they  are 
growing  in  our  own  garden,  they  can  be  moved  with  very 
slight  check  to  their  growth.  In  starting  the  seed  there  is 
no  necessity  for  hot-bed  or  cold-frame.  It  may  be  put  in 
the  ground  the  first  week  of  April,  and  the  best  plants  are 
thus  secured.  Much  is  gained  by  preparing  a  warm  but 
not  dry  plot  of  ground  in  autumn,  making  it  very  rich 
with  short,  half-decayed  stable-manure.  This  preparation 
should  be  begun  as  soon  as  possible  after  the  soaking  Sep 
tember  rains.  Having  thoroughly  incorporated  and  mixed 
evenly  in  the  soil  an  abundance  of  the  manure  described, 
leave  the  ground  untouched  for  three  weeks.  The  warm 
fertilizer  will  cause  great  numbers  of  weed-seeds  to  germi 
nate.  When  these  thrifty  pests  are  a  few  inches  high,  dig 
them  under  and  bring  up  the  bottom  soil.  The  warmth  and 
light  will  immediately  start  a  new  and  vigorous  growth  of 
weeds,  which  in  turn  should  be  dug  under.  If  the  celery 
seed  bed  be  made  early  enough,  this  process  can  be  repeated 
several  times  before  winter — the  oftener  the  better;  for  by 
it  the  great  majority  of  weed-seeds  will  be  made  to  germi 
nate,  and  thus  are  destroyed.  The  ground  also  becomes 
exceedingly  rich,  mellow,  and  fine — an  essential  condition 
for  celery  seed,  which  is  very  small,  and  germinates  slowly. 
This  thorough  preparation  does  not  involve  much  labor,  for 
the  seed-bed  is  small,  and  nothing  more  is  required  in  spring 
but  to  rake  the  ground  smooth  and  fine  as  soon  as  the  frost 
is  out.  The  soil  has  already  been  made  mellow,  and  cer 
tainly  nothing  is  gained  by  turning  up  the  cold  earth  in 
the  bottom  of  the  bed.  Sow  the  seed  at  once  on  the  sun- 
warmed  surface.  The  rows  should  be  nine  inches  apart, 
and  about  twelve  seeds  sown  to  every  inch  of  row.  The 
drills  should  be  scarcely  an  eighth  of  an  inch  deep.  Indeed, 
a  firm  patting  with  the  back  of  a  spade  would  give  covering 
enough.  Since  celery  germinates  so  slowly,  it  is  well  to 
drop  a  lettuce- seed  every  few  inches,  to  indicate  clearly  just 
where  the  rows  are.  Then  the  ground  between  the  rows 
can  be  hoed  lightly  as  soon  as  the  weeds  start,  also  after 


THE   KITCHEN-GARDEN  159 

heavy  rains,  so  as  to  admit  the  vivifying  sun-rays  and  air. 
Of  course  when  the  celery  plants  are  clearly  outlined,  the 
lettuce  should  be  pulled  out. 

If  the  bed  is  made  in  spring,  perform  the  work  as  early 
as  possible,  making  the  bed  very  rich,  mellow,  and  fine. 
Coarse  manures,  cold,  poor,  lumpy  soil,  leave  scarcely  a 
ghost  of  a  chance  for  success.  The  plants  should  be  thinned 
to  two  inches  from  one  another,  and  when  five  inches  high, 
shear  them  back  to  three  inches.  When  they  have  made 
another  good  growth,  shear  them  back  again.  The  plants 
are  thus  made  stocky.  In  our  latitude  I  try  to  set  out 
celery,  whether  raised  or  bought,  between  the  twenty-fifth 
of  June  and  the  fifteenth  of  July.  This  latitude  enables 
us  to  avoid  a  spell  of  hot,  dry  weather. 

There  are  two  distinct  classes  of  celery — the  tall-growing 
sorts,  and  the  dwarf  varieties.  A  few  years  ago  the  former 
class  was  grown  generally;  trenches  were  dug,  and  their 
bottoms  well  enriched  to  receive  the  plants.  Now  the  dwarf 
kinds  are  proving  their  superiority,  by  yielding  a  larger 
amount  of  crisp,  tender  heart  than  is  found  between  long 
coarse  stalks  of  the  tall  sorts.  Dwarf  celery  requires  less 
labor  also,  for  it  can  be  set  on  the  surface  and  much  closer 
together,  the  rows  three  feet  apart,  and  the  plants  six  inches 
in  the  row.  Dig  all  the  ground  thoroughly,  then,  beginning 
on  one  side  of  the  plot,  stretch  a  line  along  it,  and  fork 
under  a  foot-wide  strip  of  three  or  four  inches  of  compost, 
not  raw  manure.  By  this  course  the  soil  where  the  row  is 
to  be  is  made  very  rich  and  mellow.  Set  out  the  plants  at 
once  while  the  ground  is  fresh  and  moist.  If  the  row  is  ten 
feet  long,  you  will  want  twenty  plants;  if  fifteen,  thirty 
plants ;  or  two  plants  to  every  foot  of  row.  Having  set  out 
one  row,  move  the  line  forward  three  feet,  and  prepare  and 
set  out  another  row  in  precisely  the  same  manner.  Con 
tinue  this  process  until  the  plot  selected  is  occupied.  If  the 
plants  have  been  grown  in  your  own  garden,  much  is  gained 
by  soaking  the  ground  round  them  in  the  evening,  and  re 
moving  them  to  the  rows  in  the  cool  of  the  morning.  This 


160  THE   HOME   ACRE 

abundant  moisture  will  cause  the  soil  to  cling  to  the  roots 
if  handled  gently,  and  the  plants  will  scarcely  know  that 
they  have  been  moved.  When  setting  I  usually  trim  off 
the  greater  part  of  the  foliage.  When  all  the  leaves  are 
left,  the  roots,  not  established,  cannot  keep  pace  with  the 
evaporation.  Always  keep  the  roots  moist  and  unshriv- 
elled,  and  the  heart  intact,  and  the  plants  are  safe.  If  no 
rain  follows  setting  immediately,  water  the  plants  thor 
oughly — don't  be  satisfied  with  a  mere  sprinkling  of  the 
surface — and  shade  from  the  hot  sun  until  the  plants  start 
to  grow.  One  of  the  chief  requisites  in  putting  out  a  celery 
plant,  and  indeed  almost  any  plant,  is  to  press  the  soil  firmly 
round,  against,  and  over  the  roots.  This  excludes  the  air,  and 
the  new  rootlets  form  rapidly.  Neither  bury  the  heart  nor 
leave  any  part  of  the  root  exposed. 

Do  not  be  discouraged  at  the  rather  slow  growth  during 
the  hot  days  of  July  and  early  August.  You  have  only  to 
keep  the  ground  clean  and  mellow  by  frequent  hoeings  until 
the  nights  grow  cooler  and  longer,  and  rains  thoroughly 
moisten  the  soil.  About  the  middle  of  August  the  plants 
should  be  thrifty  and  spreading,  and  now  require  the  first 
operation,  which  will  make  them  crisp  and  white  or  golden 
for  the  table.  Gather  up  the  stalks  and  foliage  of  each  plant 
closely  in  the  left  hand,  and  with  the  right  draw  up  the  earth 
round  it.  Let  no  soil  tumble  in  on  the  heart  to  soil  or  cause 
decay.  Press  the  soil  firmly,  so  as  to  keep  all  the  leaves  in 
an  upright  position.  Then  with  a  hoe  draw  up  more  soil, 
until  the  banking  process  is  begun.  During  September 
and  October  the  plants  will  grow  rapidly,  and  in  order  to 
blanch  them  they  must  be  earthed  up  from  time  to  time, 
always  keeping  the  stalks  close  and  compact,  with  no  soil 
falling  in  on  the  developing  part.  By  the  end  of  October 
the  growth  is  practically  made,  and  only  the  deep  green 
leaves  rest  on  the  high  embankments.  The  celery  now 
should  be  fit  for  use,  and  time  for  winter  storing  is  near. 
In  our  region  it  is  not  safe  to  leave  celery  unprotected  after 
the  tenth  of  November,  for  although  it  is  a  very  hardy  plant, 


THE   KITCHEN-GARDEN  101 

it  will  not  endure  a  frost  which  produces  a  strong  crust  of 
frozen  soil.  I  once  lost  a  fine  crop  early  in  November. 
The  frost  in  one  night  penetrated  the  soil  deeply,  and  when 
it  thawed  out,  the  celery  never  revived.  Never  handle  celery 
when  it,  is  frozen.  My  method  of  preserving  this  vegetable 
for  winter  use  is  simply  this.  During  some  mild,  clear  day 
in  early  November  I  have  a  trench  ten  inches  wide  dug 
nearly  as  deep  as  the  celery  is  tall.  This  trench  is  dug  on 
a  warm  dry  slope,  so  that  by  no  possibility  can  water  gather 
in  it.  Then  the  plants  are  taken  up  carefully  and  stored  in 
the  trench,  the  roots  on  the  bottom,  the  plants  upright  as 
they  grew,  and  pressed  closely  together  so  as  to  occupy 
all  the  space  in  the  excavation.  The  foliage  rises  a  little 
above  the  surface,  which  is  earthed  up  about  four  inches,  so 
that  water  will  be  shed  on  either  side.  Still  enough  of  the 
leaves  are  left  in  the  light  to  permit  all  the  breathing  neces 
sary  ;  for  plants  breathe  as  truly  as  we  do.  As  long  as  the 
weather  keeps  mild,  this  is  all  that  is  needed;  but  there  is 
no  certainty  now.  A  hard  black  frost  may  come  any  night. 
I  advise  that  an  abundance  of  leaves  or  straw  be  gathered 
near.  When  a  bleak  November  day  promises  a  black  frost 
at  night,  scatter  the  leaves,  etc.,  thickly  over  the  trenched 
celery,  and  do  not  take  them  off  until  the  mercury  rises 
above  freezing-point.  If  a  warm  spell  sets  in,  expose  the 
foliage  to  the  air  again.  But  watch  your  treasure  vigilantly. 
Winter  is  near,  and  soon  you  must  have  enough  covering 
over  your  trench  to  keep  out  the  frost — a  foot  or  more  of 
leaves,  straw,  or  some  clean  litter.  There  is  nothing  better 
than  leaves,  which  cost  only  the  gathering.  From  now  till 
April,  when  you  want  a  head  or  more  of  celery,  open  the 
trench  at  the  lower  end,  and  take  out  the  crisp  white  or 
golden  heads,  and  thank  the  kindly  Providence  that  planted 
a  garden  as  the  best  place  in  which  to  put  man,  and  woman 
also. 

GARNISHING   AND   POT   HERBS 

"There's  fennel  for  you;  there's  rue  for  you. "     Strange 
and  involuntary  is  the  law  of  association  1     1  can  never  see 


162  THE   HOME   ACRE 

the  garnishing  and  seasoning  herbs  of  the  garden  without 
thinking  of  the  mad  words  of  distraught  Ophelia.  I  fancy, 
however,  that  we  are  all  practical  enough  to  remember  the 
savory  soups  and  dishes  rendered  far  more  appetizing  than 
they  could  otherwise  have  been  by  these  aromatic  and  pun 
gent  flavors.  I  will  mention  only  a  few  of  the  popular  sorts. 

The  seeds  of  fennel  may  be  sown  in  April  about  three- 
quarters  of  an  inch  deep,  and  the  plants  thinned  to  fifteen 
inches  apart.  Cut  ofi  the  seed-stalks  to  increase  the  growth 
of  foliage. 

Parsley,  like  celery  seed,  germinates  slowly,  and  is  some 
times  about  a  month  in  making  its  appearance.  The  soil 
should  therefore  be  made  very  rich  and  fine,  and  the  seed 
sown  half  an  inch  deep,  as  early  in  spring  as  possible. 
When  the  plants  are  three  inches  high,  thin  them  to  eight 
inches  apart. 

Sweet-basil  may  be  sown  in  early  May,  and  the  plants 
thinned  to  one  foot  apart.  The  seeds  of  sweet-marjoram  are 
very  minute,  and  must  be  covered  very  thinly  with  soil 
finely  pulverized;  sow  in  April  or  May,  when  the  ground 
is  in  the  best  condition.  Sage  is  easily  raised  from  seeds 
sown  an  inch  deep  the  latter  part  of  April ;  let  the  soil  be 
warm  and  rich;  let  the  plants  stand  about  one  foot  apart 
in  the  row.  Thyme  and  summer-savory  require  about  the 
same  treatment  as  sage.  I  find  that  some  of  the  mountain 
mints  growing  wild  are  quite  as  aromatic  and  appetizing  as 
many  of  these  garden  herbs. 


THE   END 


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